for Starlight Dances

When the laughter in your eyes can't hide the pain inside your heart
And the world around you will not stop to listen
When you wake up in the morning with a space inside your soul
And no one will answer when you ask what's missing

When the doctors and philosophers can't cure the hurt you feel
And the medicines they offer promise nothing
When the day is spent in sorrow with no ending clear in the sight
And your anger turns to sadness at their bluffing

Will you rest a while and let me dry the teardrops on your cheek
Will you let the one who loves you well take care of you
Will you take my hand and give me time to hold you in my arms
Will you listen to the words I speak to comfort you

Lady sorrow, I will be your willow tree
'til tomorrow, when the sadness sets you free
You can borrow any strength you need from me;
I am here with you and that is where I want to be.

When the trying just to smile can be too much for you to bear
And the thought of things unfinished is so haunting
When you stare out of the window with a longing in your mind
And no one will realize how you've been wanting

When the advisors and consultants can not give you sound advice
And they ramble on and don't offer solutions
When you've grown so tired of speaking with no hope that you'll heard
And your voice is weary with grim resolution

Will you stay and while and let me wipe the teardrops from your eyes
Will you let the one who loves you share your weeping
Will you give to me your hand and let me hold you in my arms
Will you trust me to watch over while you're sleeping

Lady sorrow, I will be your willow tree
'til tomorrow, when the sadness sets you free
You can borrow any strength you need from me;
I am here with you throughout all of eternity.

You can cry - I will understand; you can scream and I will never turn away
I will try - to help you where I can; in my love for you there lies a better day

Lady sorrow, I will be your willow tree
'til tomorrow, when the sadness sets you free
You can borrow any strength you need from me
I am here with you and that is where I'll always be.

25 MAY 2000

Who planted these hurtful seeds of discord,
Mixing them among the bits of wheat grain,
Laying a hex on land that can afford
No such burden, for it has never lain

Fallow, having imposed upon it no
Seventh year stretch, no time for idle rest?
Whose hand left the sack, and tossed to and fro
The rough, cruel tares among the gentle best?

It was my own hand that planted this field,
That heedless, from the store there at my hip
Sowed such strife between the narrow furrows.
But others must take their crop from this yield;

They too will pay at harvest for my slip ---
How deep the roots of regret and blame grow.

23 SEP 2003

Once upon a time (which so many of us assume is in the past, but could very well be the future) in a coffee shop far, far away (so far, in fact, it might be considered to be in Memphis, Tennessee) on a Sunday that was confused about its own self-image, seeing how it had become devalued by being sandwiched in the middle, between the bookends, so to speak, of a three-day weekend commemorating the inconsistent foreign policy of a barely toilet-trained democracy, a young man named Gravity Pushman, who was an anarchist comedian who moonlighted as a itinerant philosopher/busboy/ panhandler/candidate for the U. S. Senate, sat with a girl who met a Crown Victoria coming out of a Circle K parking lot who dreamt of being a mental case and thereby receiving special treatment from people who assume that they are not (crazy, that is). Like most men of mice and plan, it (the situation, that is) was better laid than executed, which might be considered a moral judgment regarding the penal (or penile) system of the above-stated Greek resurrected Frankenstein monster, but since there are no givens in the above equation, one can never tell. We were speaking of executions and putting our words into action by killing time, which Aleister Crowley affirms is the only real measure of our lifespans that we are aware of, and therefore, if you love life you mustn't waste it.

"You know what your problem is," he said, running an Ohio Blue Tip against the floor of the porch and putting the flame to the cigarette at his lips, "your problem is that you just cannot hang; whereas I can hang, do hang, am hanging, and probably will hang at some time in the future, for a crime I could not or shall not have committed, having been sentenced to meet the hangman's daughter by a jury of my peers in accordance with the laws of the state and the dictates of moral society and quite possibly by the whim of several species of television-weaned autosuggestible mass consumers of misinformation on the basis of circumstantial evidence, or through the influence of outward pressures upon the existent legal system, or perhaps even through the whim of that particular doctor of jurisprudence who in his closing remarks to said jury will imply that although the proof is more in the pudding, there is no pudding like a Jello pudding pop, and ergo, primae facie, habeas corpus, pop goes the weasel."

"You know I'm not as smart as you," she said, "I can't keep up with you."

"That's why the humans are a race," he responded, "and all other things are species or breeds or varieties. They seem to think it's something to be won, either by being the most fleet of foot or by answering the right question at the right time with the right intention in the right tone of voice under the right conditions to receive the right response."

"What if," she broke in, "what if the right wing was really the left wing, and the left wing was really the right?"

He paused for a minute to think, flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette. "You'd still have to cut the breast three ways," he answered, "the only difference would be that the wishbone would be the funny bone."

Thinking, hoping, and perhaps even praying that someday she might be clever, she responded in the interrogative (which she could comprehend on certain levels on certain days in certain company during certain conversations, but would be hard pressed to spell, whereas since his experience as a runner-up in the Hardin County, Ohio spelling bee at the age of eight gave him an incredible grasp of useless things such as spelling, he would have been glad to say 'interrogative' i-n-t-e-r-r (or maybe 'double r') o-g-a-t-i-v-e 'interrogative'), saying, "Funny ha-ha, funny weirdstrange, funny intelligent, funny odd, or funny indigenous poor people exchanged for funny trees made into funny pulp print in funny papers read by funny exploitationalists passing funny money in a funny farm nursing home for the insane society?"

"You know those times when you think you're funny," he retorted, "when you think you're funny, but you're not?"

I know," she interrupted, "this is one of them."

"If there is hope," he continued, "its candle might just be burning for you. Don't get too excited, however, or the exhaust from your deep breathing, soul-searching, self-help administrating, inner-child spoiling exercises just might be enough to put us all in total darkness, which was, of course, where Moses was when the lights went out."

"Your mother," she responded, "must be a saint. I just can't see how any one could put up with you."

"All I can say to that," he laughed, "is this: too bad it wasn't Eddie Vedder."

MAY 1994

Sometimes you smell trouble coming
Hinted on the breeze
The final fragile feather
That can bring you to your knees

Sometimes you can sense it coming
When the pressure builds, your ears start drumming
Sometimes you can tell the future
Read it in the signs

The simple subtle signals
That are there between the lines
Sometimes you can feel it growing
Where the wheel will stop, there's just no knowing

Things can get crazy, the lines become hazy
And there is no sure way to go
Going through changes, your world rearranges
When it sweeps you up in the flow
Just let go ...

Sometimes you sense change occurring
A shift in the air
The muffled moving Music
That transports from here to there

Sometimes you can hear the whirring
When the wheels and engines start purring
Sometimes you may feel the power
Taste it in your bones

The crackling coursing current
That bleeds through the danger zones
Sometimes it grows like a flower
When the muse will sing, who knows the hour?

Things can get crazy, the lines become hazy
And there is no sure way to go
Going through changes, your world rearranges
When it sweeps you up in the flow
Just let go ...

19 SEP 2003

Perhaps it is because I just finished reading David Crosby's autobiography Long Time Gone, but yesterday when I was driving home from the store I realized something about myself that is strange: I drive like I'm holding, and when I say holding I mean carrying or otherwise transporting illegal substances. Not that I do that anymore, but I suppose it's a habit that dies hard. Taking less populated streets, turning off when there are rollers (i.e., police cars) within a mile sight ahead and particularly behind. Being very careful to observe speed limits, stop signs, and so on. Maybe I'm just an old hippie at heart ... LOL. But it doesn't matter what vehicle I'm driving, how far the distance, how well I know the neighborhood, what my frame of mind is ... I drive like I'm worried about getting busted. Quite odd, I suppose.

Winding down the dreary days that led me to this place
Powers of suggestion leaving echoes on my face
Lost in the sound of howling engines revved up for the race
Standing on some lonesome corner trying to plead my case

So many circles of color and sound
Between the sky and this place on the ground
So little time to spend looking around
Catching the moments I've found
Coming down

Tripping through the troubled times that make up this charade
Hours of reflection spent on mirrors now unmade
Lost in the flash of fickle freedom hidden in the shade
Standing on some lonesome corner watching the parade

So many circles that echo with sound
Trying to fly with my feet on the ground
On the horizon and looking around
Catching the insights I've found
Coming down

Stumbling over silent stones that lay there on my path
Symbols of some separation between what has passed
Lost in time's tumult and triumph, things not built to last
Standing on some lonesome corner I just have to laugh

So many circles resplendent with sound
Filling the space between me and the ground
So many moments spent looking around
For all the good things I've found
Coming down

16 SEP 2003

OK, here's where it's going to get tricky. After high school, with full time employment, my album purchasing power increased dramatically. A lot of energy was spent building a record collection. I'd go out and buy complete catalogs (yea, a fool and his money are so soon parted). The years 1983 to 1985 consisted of the following milestones:

David Bowie, Every album from "Hunky Dory" through "Scary Monsters"
Bob Dylan, Every album from "Bob Dylan" through "Empire Burlesque"
Otis Rush, Right Place, Wrong Time
Electric Flag, Long Time Coming
Buffalo Springfield, Retrospective
Spyro Gyra, Morning Dance
AC/DC, Highway to Hell
Black Sabbath, Every album from "Black Sabbath" through "Heaven and Hell"
Led Zeppelin, Every album from "Led Zeppelin" through "Presence"
Doc Watson, The Essential Doc Watson
John Hammond, The Best of John Hammond
The Beatles, Complete Half-Speed Masters, "Please Please Me" through "Abbey Road"

Details to follow ...

OK, so the previous set of idols and influences ended with 1977. Over the next few weeks, I'll be exploring the subsequent years and the albums/artists that shaped my world as a Musician. Included will be the following, identified in chronological (i.e., the year I discovered them) order:

Here's the high school years :)

News of the World, Queen
Aladdin Sane, David Bowie
Passions of a Man, Charles Mingus
Giant Steps, John Coltrane
Harbor, America
Five Live Yardbirds, The Yardbirds
Only a Lad, Oingo Boingo
Brain Salad Surgery, Emerson Lake & Palmer
Never Mind the Bollocks, The Sex Pistols
Bayou Country, Creedence Clearwater Revival
We Sold Our Souls for Rock and Roll, Black Sabbath
Fragile, Yes
New Values, Iggy Pop
The Wake of Poseidon, King Crimson
The Best of Lou Reed, Lou Reed
Double Fantasy, John Lennon/Yoko Ono

Thinking about Johnny Cash today made me pause for a moment and reflect on where I am as a result of my Musical idols. Now, I'm not talking about bands I like, or songwriters that strike a particular chord in me, or unique and individual voices --- although each of those is a part of what I'm talking about. When I say idols, I don't mean for worship, either. Worship is too much of a separation between the ideal and the reality - worship in the sense of a specific ritual that delineated in time and space focuses the attention of the worshipper in a single-minded beam of light that absorbs the universe --- although THAT is part of it, too. What I am talking about is performers (in my case, Musicians) who when I first heard them changed --- irreversibly, immeasurably, irrevocably, dramatically, definitely and undeniably --- who I am in relationship to what I do as a Musician. It's different for different arts, I suppose --- in some media, perhaps the effect is not so immediate, but in Music, when a guitar or harmonica or piano or whatever is just within reach at the fingertips at the split second the performer's first thing hits my eardrums. And that makes the absorption, I guess, so much more (well, in my opinion) intense and well, poignant. To put it into another vernacular, it's like the first time you do serious amounts of any drug (enough to alter your thought energy in a pleasant way) the first time you cross the asleep/aware threshold --- but it's BETTER, because it happens every time you hear a new thing by someone who has the potential to absolutely blow your mind.

For me, it was perhaps a very strange progression ... almost like some things happened accidentally, to force me to look in a different direction --- although we all know that nothing really happens by accident. So it's a plan. Maybe not mine, but a plan nonetheless. You probably get the point by now :)

Anyway ... here, in attempted chronological order, are the performers (and their recordings or other performances) that put me where I am Musically and gave me the map to get there.

El Gato (Duke Ellington live at Newport 1958, with Cat Anderson on lead trumpet). Not really the first thing I ever heard, or sang or played, but definitely the first thing that absolutely changed me. When I heard this, I didn't have any records of my own, but listened to the stuff accumulated by my parents (and fortunately, some of their elder relations). There was a lot of classical, mostly piano and orchestral; some jazz, mostly samplers and that sort of thing; a lot of that "Music for Dining", "Music for Dancing" boxed set sort of thing from Reader's Digest. Also not to be forgotten were the three "rock and roll" samplers - well, popular Music from 1952-1954, 54-56, and 56-57 - on Decca. "Blueberry Hill", "Rock Around the Clock", "The Glow Worm" by the Mills Brothers - oh that song still gives me chills -- and so on. Louis Armstrong's "A Kiss to Build a Dream On" was on those Decca records too. Wow. We also played a lot of Music at home. Each kid had to play three instruments - piano, a stringed instrument and a horn. Plus my dad played piano and lap steel on occasion. And my cousins played, too, as well as my uncle, grandfather and grandmother. It was rural, so our Musical styles were standards and country, or country standards (and when I say country, I mean America the whole country, not just Nashville). My cousin four years older had every thing the Beatles ever made or was merchandised through them. To make a long story somewhat shorter, there was a lot of Music that didn't come from records or the radio. But that first taste of this record was cosmic. Since it was a sampler, it also had the Gerry Mulligan sextet, Louis Armstrong, Dave Brubeck ... ah, what an introduction.

Ring of Fire (Johnny Cash) and Gold Records Vol. 4 (Elvis Presley)And here is where it really begins. The first two albums I ever actually owned and didn't have to put back in someone else's record rack. There is so much to be said about these two artists that this post cannot suffice. Needless to say, I learned how to sing listening to Elvis records. But I learned how to play the guitar from Johnny Cash. And write Lyrics.

The Beatles. Of course, with my cousin's extensive collection, every time we went to visit that was all we listened to. And learned how to play. Because of the Beatles, I understand the necessities of group performance, particularly where vocals are concerned in rock and roll. Probably the most influential early Beatles' song (the first one I ever heard was "Run for Your Life" from Help!) was the song "Ticket to Ride". I learned that one on at least three instruments.

Maynard Ferguson. When I was 12, my clarinet teacher and junior high school band director got together at the teacher's college (Ohio Northern University) and took us all to see Maynard Ferguson in concert. We were playing stuff from "Chameleon" in jazz band - Gospel John, Livin' for the City, using Maynard's charts, and seeing him live was unbelievable. I'd seen orchestras, and choirs and symphonies at this point (the ones I was participating in, of course, and on television and record), but seeing a live band that grooved was major.

The Beach Boys. Before I hit high school, I didn't have many albums. Elvis' Gold Records (all of them), Johnny Cash, The Bay City Rollers, Shaun Cassidy, The Eagles Greatest Hits, some stuff I'd won writing a Halloween essay contest for WKTN (Linda Hargrove, Roy Clark and The Blues Project --- special note here, it was their 1974 reunion album, complete with Al Kooper, Steve Katz -- the guys that wrote "I Can't Keep From Crying". Man, I didn't really understand the range of the album or where that sound exactly was, but that album was GREAT. Anyway, back to the Beach Boys ... the harmony vocals always drew me in. Thanks to the Beatles and the Beach Boys, I understand harmony vocals -- and it certainly helped with my background and lead singing at family outings. If you sang a good harmony, everybody was VERY happy. Brian Wilson's range of songwriting to this day amazes me. And his voice - how haunting ...

KISS Double Platinum ... oh, I forgot the other album I had in junior high ... more on that later :)

rededicated to Johnny Cash

Well, yes, I've been in prison, and I have been dirt poor
I've spent time in worn out shoes and I've slept on the floor
And the hat I wear is there to keep the rain off of my boots
It ain't no fashion statement, just reflection on my roots

I've never roped or wrangled, but I've been behind a plow
And it's been quite a row to hoe to get where I am now
I have played for pennies on the streets just to get by
And I can sing a melody to bring tears to your eye

BORN OUTSIDE OF NASHVILLE and it's probably just as well
I never was too interested in how much I could sell
They tell me country Music's all 'bout heart and paying dues
Well, mister, I've been country nearly twice as long as you.

I was raised on rock and roll when Elvis was the king
And I won't lie, I'll tell you, man, that's where I learned to sing
But I learned some from the Beatles and as much from Bill Monroe,
Merle Haggard and ol' "No Show Jones" taught me to love the show

I love hearin' Hank and Patsy and the Grand Ol' Opry
But Sam & Dave and Otis Redding sure weren't lost on me
You might say that I'm not a purist, far as you can tell
But America is my tradition, and I've learned it well

BORN OUTSIDE OF NASHVILLE, guess I'll never be home-grown
But I could never be convinced that's something you can own
They tell me country Music's all 'bout heart and being true
Well, mister, I've been country nearly twice as long as you.

I've never been a Rebel, never fought in any wars
But I've met carpet-baggers, slaves and money-hungry whores
I've been called trash, and I've had cash, 'least long enough to spend
And I've lived through this country in between and at both ends

I've spent some time in Memphis, but in northern cities too
And maybe country's in one place, but I don't think that's true
You can keep your rhinestones and your video appeal
As for me, I'll stand by Austin and the streets of Bakersfield

BORN OUTSIDE OF NASHVILLE and it sure don't feel like home
Time in Music City makes glad I can still roam
They tell me country Music's all 'bout heart and paying dues
If that's the case, I've been in country twice as long as you.

1996

It's so hard to focus on the subtleties of life
Often times the fountain pen is like a carving knife
On clandestine maneuvers in the dark soul of the night
Without anesthesia or a sense of wrong and right

Once I thought to change the world without making it worse
Living in it seemed a drama that was unrehearsed
It lacked improvisation and was thrown together fast
Product of a culture that was certain not to last

Each unguided moment is a ruby in the dust
You try not to pick it up, but realize you must
Put it in a setting that you hope will resist rust
And watch the vultures settle on it, leaving you the crust

Watch a while and listen, there are voices on the wind
Some may whisper battle cries, and others just pretend
Once in many lifetimes can you recognize a friend
Sacrificed to sibyls speaking that they knew you when

12 SEP 2003

Another nine eleven comes and slips through afternoon
Not a single house on my block flies a flag or sings a tune
There seems to be no notice or remembrance of the day
That two years back began the work to take our souls away

Another nine eleven day and no lines have been drawn
Just like the game of chess, I guess, life moves slow for its pawns
There isn't any patriotic rhetoric on CNN or Fox
No reminders of the war still on that risks the ballot box

Another nine eleven here and our alert is high
Expecting that the enemy will be seen in our sky
There isn't an eye watching the manuevers on the ground
Where politicians scramble to the apathetic sound.

11 SEP 2003

There is something boiling on the stove's gas-driven flame
Coffee, tea or chai, to me they taste about the same
My cup overfloweth, and I won't say whose to blame
Each of us has demons that we must conquer and tame

Scribbling in the darkness, a small candle for a light
Imagining the consequence of illusory might
There must a million others sleepless on this night
Each of us believing that the cause we back is right

A literary reference should be made about this point
Some veiled allusion to Rimbaud or lighting up a joint
Each voiceless generation seeks a mouthpiece to anoint
If it's me that you've selected, I must disappoint

Walking in the shadows near the fading of the sun
Late for an appointment, but I'm much too tired to run
As each chapter closes, with higher ladder's rung
Some look just for endings, disregarding what's begun

Endless wires and circuits leading out into the void
Means by which some conversation may be well enjoyed
Yet so many people sad, and others are annoyed
Others work to prove themselves by acting unemployed

A throwaway non sequitur I now will introduce
This life is like an orange, squeeze it to enjoy the juice
Watch which way the cannon points, for it may come unloose
You can try to make sense of this, but there's not much use.

11 SEP 2003

Could have been famous, so I've always said
Those Hollywood notions still mess with my head
Should be free of them by now, I suppose
Just takes accepting the life that I chose

Paths come together, and then they diverge
Drought always leads to some great demiurge
Crossed wires connecting one thing to the next
Building new circuits where no one suspects

Could have made money, or more than I do
But then I wouldn't have what I've been through
Could start all over, and trust all to chance
Despite Thoreau's quip about new pairs of pants

Paths run together, and then they part ways
Hard to judge where they lead there through the haze
One trail seems easy, deceptively so
Each single step leads to what you don't know

Could have made much wiser use of my brain
Sounds like my mother's recurring refrain
Gone to Columbia, Juilliard, Yale
Available options, now beyond the pale

Roads intersect, and they head off apart
North and East intellect, South and West, heart
Could have done better, but no, never mind
Here is where I am, and right here is fine.

10 SEP 2003

Call it bad timing, a season of doubt
Days turn to months while you figure it out
Some expectations are better as dreams
Reality's never as clear as it seems

Call it poor judgement from weak evidence
You'll find a witness for any defense
Motives and motions get twisted and skewed
So much depends on your own attitude

Call it misfortune, with payment in kind
We each spent most of what coin we could find
Payment and purchase both steps in the dance
That zero balance is not there by chance

Call it unlucky, but what's in a name
Mere circumstances aren't solely to blame
Actions, reactions, and the science thereof
Fall by the wayside in questions of love

Call it a wrong move that both of us made
Now the dealing is over, the cards have been played
Rules can be broken, despots overthrown
But sometimes it's better to leave them, alone

Call it a breakdown, a cross in the wire
Each of us honest, and each one a liar
Friendship and folly are split by a hair
I'm here on this side, and you're over there

Call it unlucky, but that's just a word
Raking these ashes seems a bit absurd
It's all semantic, when push comes to shove
There are no quick answers in questions of love.

10 SEP 2003

Today's random thought -- making modification to the title of an existing work of literature and using that as the basis for writing my own novel.

For example, the novel Incense and Insensibility could be the Fictional account of how a group of hippies attempted to change the world, but wound up with second mortgages, stock in Microsoft and SUVs. The heroine would be of course named Emma or something like that.

cast

andrew wyeth
pablo picasso
salvador dali
georgia o'keefe
francis bacon

THE ACTION TAKES PLACE IN A COFFEE SHOP IN MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

SCENE ONE

AS THE LIGHTS COME UP, WE SEE WYETH, PICASSO, AND BACON SITTING AROUND A 50's STYLE KITCHEN TABLE ALONG THE EDGE OF THE COFFEE SHOP. THE WALLS ARE DECORATED WITH KITSCHY ART-DECO TRASH RETRO TYPE STUFF. SOMEBODY'S HAVING AN ART OPENING (SOMEBODY'S ALWAYS HAVING AN ART OPENING SOMEWHERE).

A HEATED CONVERSATION IS IN PROGRESS AS WE JOIN THE THREE ARTISTS.

PICASSO:
. . . you don't seem to understand, Andy. The world is not completely logical, nor is it able to be represented in non-abstract terms.

WYETH:
That's all well and good, Pablo, but there seem to be so many quote artists out there that present what I think is nothing more than primer vomit on canvas; when you ask them what it they are capturing, they say, 'this is a representation of my feelings about being raped by my father.' You can't argue with their experience, but is their expression, or rather, their exploitation of expression, valid?

BACON:
It's all bullshit. You guys are looking for symbolism in a world that is just raw, sensuous image. There is nothing in the world except violence and pain. Pablo, in your work you seem to understand; why is it when you start to explain yourself you end up spouting endless philosophical crap? I don't think the nose is really in the guitar, but your head is up your ass!

And so on and so forth.

1994

If all the world would find you lacking grace
and see in every thought and act some fault,
behind the smile that lights up your sweet face
discovering some dark and bitter vault,

if some belittle and would treat you poor
because your heart is open, reaching out,
believing it a weakness, nothing more,
or cast on your intentions scorn and doubt,

have faith that I have never been deceived
by those nay-saying cynic tongues that bite,
and will not place my trust in any voice

that speaks ill of you and would be believed.
When I look in your eyes, I know what's right,
and choosing you, know love to be my choice.

09 SEP 2003

You can't trust the politicians
But they're really not to blame
'Cause we give them what they work with
Handing over without shame

All the best of our intentions
And worst of our desires
All the evils we won't mention
But that honesty requires

So in every politician
There's a bit of you and me
They do try to represent us
And they do, to some degree

All the quick conclusions
And the power we adore
All the easiest solutions
That end in poverty and war

There are some good politicians
But they don't stay good for long
Because who they represent is us
And we are often wrong

All the selfish motives
And all the foolish pride
All the general vote is
Is picking for your side

09 SEP 2003

My last post about the hurricanes reminded me of a song that I wrote back when I was in what I might call my Kris Kristofferson phase. I was outlaw country, I guess, and had a lot of friends who were bikers and truck drivers. At the same time, my grandmother was suffering greatly from Alzheimer's and the way that it affected her mind and robbed her of her memories really had a profound impact on me.

At some point, I really considered trying to get Merle Haggard or David Allan Coe to record this.

The shadow on the road is getting longer
And the moonlight just won't help me find my way
Silence on the radio and it is growing stronger
3 a.m. and no more songs to play

Been down this road so often in the springtime
But the winter hides my memory locked in chains
And the road rolls 'neath my wheels like some old sweet rhyme
When the words are gone, just melody remains

I've tried to make it back to you one more time
But the road is now a lost trail that I roam
So fare thee well, for I can't tell
The highway from the chrome
Guess I'll only make it half way home

For many years this road's been friend and lover
And the silver lines have led me to your smile
But tonight my mind is tired and can't recover
The memory of that last familiar mile

The light that you left on I'm sure is burning
And the walk up to your door is straight and clean
But I can't see past this dark road's gentle turning
And I'm riding on between daylight and dream

I've tried to make it back to you one more time
But the road is now a lost trail that I roam
So fare thee well, for I can't tell
The concrete from the chrome
Guess I'm only coming half way home

The shadow on the road goes on for ages
There's no way now of telling where to go
And my map seems to be missing all its pages
How I'll make it home I just don't know.

1996

Maybe this one is about storms, but I doubt it. It's more likely to be about those people around us who seem so wild and free, little caring about the effect the great maelstrom of their existence has on others - does the hurricane care about the shorelines it devastates, the paradises upon which it wreaks havoc, the homes it destroys? So like the hurricane are so many people, hurrying and hustling through their lives, bulls in china shops, leaving nothing but wanton destruction in their wakes. I've known a few. And I've often wondered about their purpose in my life -- was it to discourage my attachment to mere material things, to a few precious valuables and so-called unbreakable commodities, and seek out things that the vissicitudes of this life cannot damage? Or was it to point out the very unstable potential of each of our natures, that finds expression only in random violence and senseless cruelty, and keep me from "riding that wind" myself, if only to provide a safe harbor for my own more landlocked dreams? Perhaps. I only know that I have longed to be a "storm rider" in the past, and surely have harnessed my share of lightening. Being burned is only half the story. As anyone who has spent a lot of time in the water will tell you, it's not the current that ultimately gets you, it's the exposure.

All these years spent riding the eye of the storm
At the edge of the wind and the rain
Ahead of the weather, before it could form
You'd think patterns would make themselves plain

But the nature of the cyclone is spun from without
Subtle shifts in the slipstream can deceive
You can read the cloud patterns, but there's always doubt
That the nightfall's what morning believes

And the hurricane takes you to places unknown
That the points on the map do not show
At the start of the season, you're out on your own
For the doors are all boarded up closed

And the crux of the matter, at the cusp of the wind
Where your sense of direction is confused
Is to not fight the current when you feel it begin
if you don't want to end bent and bruised

You start in the ocean, just a speck in the sky
Building up size and momentum by the mile
Slipping under the radar for the first by and by
Then appearing at the curtain with style

And the hurricane brings you to uncharted zones
That the guidebooks don't often reveal
At the height of the season, you're there all alone
For the levees and beaches have been sealed

It's true, sooner or later, you burn out or make land
And the bluster slacks out of your sails
Ending up just some thunder on a few miles of sand
Filling gutters and stormdrains and pails

And a few busted windows, or a few flooded lawns
Are the best you can manage to show
For the years riding shotgun, just carried along
At the edge of the winds as they blow.

And the hurricane's dropped you so far from your home
Way beyond where the charts start to fade
At the end of the season, you're left all alone
With the wreckage that your trip has made.

09 SEP 2003

I hate a Roman named Status Quo!, He said to me. Fill your eyes with wonder, He said, live as if you'd drop dead In ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream Made or paid for in a factory. Ask no questions, Ask for no security, There never was such an animal. And if there was, It would be related to the great sloth Which hangs upside down in a tree All day every day, sleeping its life away. He said, shake the tree and bring the great sloth down. -- Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

For so many years my life has been defined by the Music I've wanted to create. Each time I get disgusted, and lay down the guitar (or bass or piano or whatever primary chording instrument I'm using at the time), it's only a matter of time before something draws me back into that world - a need to express, melodically or harmonically, a certain sense of place and time. Many of my own bouts of indecision, self-doubt and uncertainty can be traced directly to the level of frustration I'm experiencing Musically. Because my primary influence in terms of creative units is based on the Beatles, I am constantly looking for collaborators - and while I have at rare intervals encountered souls who seemed "attuned" to where I was coming from (at the time), usually I end up alone, in the home studio, laying down tracks and attempting to fill in the gaps myself. One time when I was talking to someone about forming a band, and played them some of my tapes, they asked, "well, you seem to have it all together ... what do you need me for?" I said nothing, but thought hard at that person --- have you ever heard of playing live? And sometimes, when all you have is your own ideas, your own harmonic limitations, you end up simply imitating yourself. Instead of finding new chords and melodies, you end up playing every song you've ever written over and over again - and coming up with nothing new, just cannabalizing your own repertoire. Yet at this point in my life I don't want to tour, or drive an hour to rehearsals, or hang out at bars till three a.m. or have someone crash at my house, high or crazy or both. I feel like Robert Hunter, sometimes, looking for Jerry Garcia. Or Pete Sinfield, looking for Robert Fripp. I'll admit, I'm not looking all that hard. I've gotten to a point where it makes more sense to not look. Because looking always ends up with me thinking I've found something, and then it turns out to be so temporary. So many of the models I look to started out so much younger as collaborators, and grew into it as they themselves matured as humans. And besides, the Music industry environment today is not looking to nurture and encourage growth. So there it is. The solution is to just keep on doing what I'm doing. Unless, of course, there is someone out there who wants to collaborate :)

My pen and paper 'gainst your sword and shield
We both draw blood on the same battlefield
It's a war of ideas, and some of them proud
None of them dare speak their motives out loud

My own revolution turned out to be small
And sometimes, I wonder on the sense of it all
It's a trial and burden, this conscience of mine
It keeps me from thinking everything is just fine

Some old friends surrendered themselves to the void
Got themselves mortgaged and gainful employed
It's a non-ending struggle, to have and to hold
And the graveyards are filled with the wild and the bold

Some fought for their country, and some fought against
the barbed wire that keeps us on this side of the fence
It's a constant reminder that what makes us sane
Is the same thing that drives us to lash out in pain

My own revolution is smaller, it seems
It keeps me from dying, and keeps me in dreams
It's a lifelong ambition, to strike with a chord
To the heart of the matter with ink, not a sword.

07 SEP 2003

Spring doesn't know summer
It's just risen from the dead
After all that time in winter
It would rather play instead

Spring doesn't know summer
But it gets there anyway
Every stormy April morning
Leads to afternoon in May

But summer knows the autumn
It can feel it in the breeze
And it dreads that first September
When the chill attacks the knees

Summer holds off autumn
For as long as it can bear
Pretending that its green-leaved glory
Won't end up cold and bare

'Cause the autumn won't remember
How it laughed in early spring
and the newness of the meadow
that gives birth to everything

No, the autumn looks back longing
at the lessons summer learned
Thinking of the coming winter
As its green begins to turn

Now, I am in mid-summer
And I sense the changing tide
Watching all my growth go amber
But still holding spring inside

When I come to November
I hope I can still recall
The way the world looked in April
When I knew nothing of fall.

07 SEP 2003

Feelin' in my bones I just can't shake these lonesome blues
Standin' at the crossroads thinkin' either way I lose
If I leave that girl in Birmingham the fault will just be mine
But things will be no better done this time

Woke up in the station, morning breeze around my head
Standin' at the counter wonderin' what was left unsaid
If I tell that girl the honest truth we'll both just end up cryin'
But things will be no better down the line

Standin' at the station, mama, heard you call my name
Holdin' to my ticket and dividing up the blame
Guess it makes no difference when you know you've got to choose
The long road into independence blues.

Feelin' in my bones that tells me to leave her behind
But I can't help thinkin' she'll be lingerin' on my mind
If I leave that girl in Birmingham I'll hang my head in shame
But things won't get no better in this game

Stood there in the ticket line, now my train is pulling in
What we did and what we said keeps coming back again
If you ever think of me I hope your thoughts are kind
But either way I've got to keep on moving down the line.

Standin' at the station, mama, pain inside my soul
Conductor, take my ticket, let those engines start to roll
Guess it makes no difference when there's nothing left to choose
I'm headed into independence blues.

You might say I'm running out and trying to get free
But indecision takes its toll and it's been killing me
So no regrets and let that whistle echo out its cry
We'll understand it better by and by

Standin' at the station, mama, heard you call my name
Lookin' out my window and dividing up the blame
Guess it makes no difference if it's right or wrong to choose
The long road into independence blues.

1998

Sitting here talking 'bout the government
Divvying up all the blame
Easy to say it's the fault of the president
When you see them all the same

I've a got a finger to point and complain
Sometimes my fist shakes in anger
Seems like that's such a familiar refrain
It keeps us at odds and such strangers

Desperate times call for difficult measures
Keeping your balance on a tight wire
Hard to stay dry in such inclement weather
Better stand close to the fire

Sitting here watching the things on the news
Wondering at such insanity
Easy to think your superior views
Protect you by stroking your vanity

I've got a notion the world needs to change
Sometimes, when I look in the mirror
Seems that the eyes that look back are so strange
They don't help me see any clearer

Desperate times call for desperate measures
It's hard to stay clean of the mire
Try to make sure you don't lose what you treasure
Standing too close to the fire

I think that I know that I see what there is to do
Funny but sometimes I think I know better than you
There are no answers without a hard question or two
I think that I know but I know I haven't a clue

Desperate times call for difficult measures
Weighing the odds and doing what's required
Hard to stay cool when madmen are untethered
and you're standing too close to the fire.

05 SEP 2003

This decade slipped by faster than the ones before
The moments made of smaller, finer stuff
The days turn into months, each year turns into four
And often there just doesn't seem to be enough

Time to keep in focus where the journey leads
Time to find a balance between wants and needs
Time to ask the questions and await response
Time slips into darkness, and you can't retrieve it once
It's gone.

Ten years of growing older and of changing dreams
While things once so important fade to gray
Some visions turn to nightmares, and sometimes it seems
What you hold so tightly starts to slip away ... in

Time that keeps on moving despite what you do
Time that heals all wounds and maybe makes a few
Time that marks our limits, fencing our lives in
Time slips into darkness, and sometimes you never notice when
It's gone.

A decade filled with finished tasks and things undone
Each milestone a new monument to change
The actions and reactions pile up once begun
And in the rear view mirror, look so strange

Where does the time go, dissolving into empty space?
Do I have time enough, where do I stand in the race?
Is there some purpose for living in this time and place,
Watching the lines in the mirror etched into my face?

Time for unlearning and learning again
Time for beginning to accept the end
Time for more dreams and for singing new songs
Time slips into darkness, and the darkness doesn't realize
It's gone.

03 SEP 2003

Sometimes, I wonder if the choices made
in the heat of the moment, out of my head,
by comparison to some plan would have played
out differently if I'd chosen that plan instead.

While in some way that structure might
have lent some order to the resulting chaos,
making each achievement less of a fight,
there is no way to reckon the loss

that results from adhering to just what you know
and the lessons avoided by acting just so
and besides, all that planning is useless sometimes
when you're trying to make up your mind
there are some pieces you leave behind.

Sometimes, I wonder if the easier road
is the best way to travel, foot on the gas,
by comparison to the rough path that I chose
that you can't turn off to from the overpass.

While in some way that highway could
have got me here faster, in far fewer days,
engine less weary there under the hood,
there is no way to reckon the ways

that you learn if you're looking beyond what you know
and by travel to places you'd rather not go
and besides, no one's guidebook will take you that far
when you're trying to find who you are
there are some pieces not seen by car.

Sometimes, I wonder if the next best thing
is the choice you should make from the start;
by comparison, all the sureness Plan A brings
makes you see with your head, not your heart.

While in some ways the clearer plan should
make you more successful, to some small degree,
every plan has its failings, no matter how good,
there is no way to reckon the fee

that you pay if you're only sure of what you know
and the things you acquire and treasure are for show
and besides, their true value is not guaranteed
when you're trying to find out what you need
there are some times the danger is speed.

02 SEP 2003

What is a rebel? A man who says no, but whose refusal does not imply a renunciation. He is also a man who says yes, from the moment he makes his first gesture of rebellion. A slave who has taken orders all his life suddenly decides that he cannot obey some new command. What does he mean by saying "no"? -- Albert Camus, The Rebel

Spent an interesting afternoon browsing the CD bins looking for old punk records. Found a few, old and new: The Clash (The Clash UK version), Public Image Ltd. (The Flowers of Romance) and Killing Joke (Killing Joke 2003). Passed on The Damned, Bauhaus, Gang of Four, The Buzzcocks, X, The Ramones, oh the list goes on.

But it got me thinking about those days, lo these many moons ago, when I was a bass player and singer toying on the fringes of punk and goth. First off, I was classically and otherwise trained as a Musician. That put me in a different place than most punks, who were at best self-taught. Second, my childhood in Ohio and subsequent life in California (complete with choir, band and private Music lessons) exposed me to a much wider range of Music than most "punks" and "goths" that I knew. So to start with, the genre was limiting in terms of what was "acceptable" Music for punks to even play. And then there's the issue of rebellion. Sure, I was in a death match with my parents, the establishment, institutions of all kinds, the government and life in general. So what was I rebelling against? The bourgeoise notions that surrounded me in the suburbs? I had a voice, and could use it as I chose. I wasn't being oppressed except by my own preconceived notions of reality. And what notions, grand and overblown, they were.
Part of being a "rock star" is never growing up. Never changing your stand against "the man". But doesn't everyone change? Doesn't the world, spinning on and on, circling the sun year after year, change constantly? What do you give up to "sell out", anyway? Some false pretense that you are more than an infinitesmal speck of dust in the great desert that is civilization, that itself is a square inch of a nation-state on a much larger globe, which is unseen when the universe is looked at as a whole. The idea that what you are saying has never been said before, or better, despite the fact that your intellect gladly will differ on that score.

So there it is. The short version of why I am not a practicing Musician. Or something like that.