I don't talk politics down at the honky-tonk;
doesn't seem to make much sense to me:
stirring up a hornet's nest with some of ol' Milwaukee's best
and finding out just where we disagree.

We both want the same things, besides, more or less:
love and understanding with some happiness.
What's the point of splitting hairs on points of law?
Let's agree nobody wins, and call this one a draw

This is a free country: we each pay for our own drinks
it doesn't really matter what the guy next to you thinks
If you don't like my politics, don't saddle me with yours
we'll get along while the beer's cold and the malt whiskey pours
What's good about America is folks like you and me
Can put aside our differences and behave civilly
Besides, the hardest part of freedom is, it seems to me,
Being smart enough to let the other fellow be.

I don't talk religion from a barstool seat;
doesn't seem appropriate to me:
mixing sin and righteousness like tonic and bad gin
seems to me a recipe for trouble to begin

We both want the same thngs anyway, my friend:
Love and some security for what's beyond the bend.
What's the point of arguing on some old books?
Let's agree nobody's right, and most of 'em are crooks.

This is a free country: we each pay for our own way
it doesn't really matter what the guy next to you says
If you don't like my point of view, don't saddle me with yours
we'll get along while the beer's cold and the malt whiskey pours
What's good about America is folks like you and me
Can put aside our differences and behave civilly
Besides, the hardest part of freedom is, it seems to me,
Being smart enough to let the other fellow be.

30 DEC 2005

The dance floor is swimming with fine looking women
and boys on the move or the make
The music is pumping, and this place is jumping
it's turned into quite a clambake

The whiskey's been flowing, with no signs of slowing
and everyone's starting to glow
A hell of a party, Budweiser, Bacardi,
we're set to play one more great show

There's nothing wrong with a party crowd
No harm in getting drunk and being loud
I've done my share of that; I'm not too proud
To say much more than should have been allowed
But I'm too old for drinking shots all night
Got far too much to lose to start a fight
Just 'cause someone looked at me not quite right ...
I'll take the corner table out of sight.
I'd rather sit and talk here with my friends
And let some nothing slip in my weekend
Maybe a little more, but it depends
On who else is here when the party ends.

The long bar is littered with empties and glitter,
they're packed like sardines through the door;
and out on the hardwood the ugly, bad and good
are making points and keeping score

Yeah, it's a great shindig, who knew it'd get this big,
it's almost not quite in control
Who knows much longer, before this great throng here
makes diamonds from our lumps of coal

Sometimes it's great in a party crowd
Big fun in getting drunk and being loud
I've been the center, and I'm not too proud
To say more often than should be allowed
But I'm too old for drinking Jack 'til two
Much more than one or two and I'm half through,
Too tired to wait all night for a pool cue
And then exhausted, crawl on home to you.
I'd rather sit and nurse a single beer
Make it a hobby instead of career
That way I'm sure at least my head is clear
when this whole party crowd disappears.

Last call was just sounded, the bar is surrounded
with elbows, slurred orders and shouts
While each senorita makes themselves look sweeter
to start weeding their prospects out

One more upbeat number, last test for the drummer,
sing out, sing along strong and loud
Bound up in the action, in the satisfaction
of being in the party crowd.

There's nothing wrong with a party crowd
No harm in getting drunk and being loud
I've done my share of that; I'm not too proud
To say much more than should have been allowed
But I'm too old for drinking shots all night
Got far too much to lose to start a fight
Just 'cause someone looked at me not quite right ...
I'll take the corner table out of sight.
I'd rather sit and talk here with my friends
And let some nothing slip in my weekend
Maybe a little more, but it depends
On who else is here when the party ends.

27 DEC 2005

I'm thinking about the Bakersfield sound, and a song by Merle Haggard in particular --- "I Must Have Been Somebody Else You've Known", which as far as I can tell is only available in a version by the International Submarine Band (Gram Parsons' outfit pre-Sweetheart of the Rodeo and Flying Burritos). Thinking about Buck Owens, too, and that brother act / close harmony from Appalachia married with Western Swing, and also thinking about how lucky I am to be in the relationship I'm in --- a gamble that has paid off in dividends beyond my wildest imagination.

For my lucky number (#25)

Love's always been a lottery as far as I'm concerned
You lay your money down, you roll the dice, and you get burned
A sure thing Friday night's all right 'til Sunday comes around
And you find out the race was fixed; one more lost weekend down.

Where lady luck's concerned I've struck out nearly every time
My credit's gone to hell and I'm down to my last worn dime
While other guys get lucky I'm the one shot down in flames
But I'm back every weekend just the same ...

I'm hoping that you'll be my lucky number, 'cause I've got everything I own on you.
You've got all my wheels spinning, feels like I just might be winning
and my losing streak will finally break in two.
I'm hoping that you'll be my lucky number, and that I'll end ahead this time around;
Oh, seven come eleven, won't you be my slice of heaven
and I'll end my gambling ways and settle down.

Love's always been a game of chance where all the money cards
seem to escape my hand, my plans die fast and they die hard;
A solid bet on some coquette turns into morning rain
A fleeting song, goodbye, so long and I'm alone again

Where passion sparks, my matches are soaked through with bitter tears
I'm left holding a worthless stub when the racetrack is cleared
While other guys are finding love they probably don't deserve
I'm at the low end of the romance curve ...

I'm hoping that you'll be my lucky number, 'cause I've got all my hopes tied up in you.
You've got all my wheels spinning, feels like I might be winning
and this losing streak I'm on will soon be through.
I'm hoping that you'll be my lucky number, and that I'll hit the jackpot finally;
Oh, seven come eleven, won't you be my slice of heaven
get lucky with a poor gambler like me.

19 DEC 2005

My friend Jeff Rachall was talking the other day about going Christmas shopping with his three-year old daughter, and how she was now at an age where you couldn't sneak presents for her into the cart without her knowing it. Once they hit three, they become much more aware of somewhat covert actions, and are all questions --- "What's that?" "What'd you just put in the cart?" "Why are you hiding that from me?" and then, of course with curiousity piqued they are difficult to shake off so you can HIDE the things at home. I told Jeff it doesn't get any better as they get older, because they learn all your hiding places and get MUCH better at wheedling the truth out of you. Anyway, I wrote this song thinking of Jeff singing it to his little girl, and maybe me singing it to mine.

Sometimes it's hard to know the right way to begin
Too often words don't get me past the might have beens
The mistakes I've made that haunt me linger on
And it's hard explaining just where I went wrong

Sometimes this life can be so bittersweet with tears
Too often what's most precious to us disappears
Each choice we make can break the simplest dreams in two
And make it seem like giving up's the thing to do

If I could change the past, and somehow make things right,
or make the sun shine through the darkest, deepest night,
turn all your tears to laughter and stop this spinning world
That wouldn't be enough for daddy's little girl.

Sometimes I think that you're too young to understand
The way that life can break the best that's in a man
Too often when I've tried, I've failed to live up to
The man I see reflected in your eyes of blue

Sometimes at night I sit and watch you while you sleep
The soft sound of your gentle breathing makes me weep,
Thinking hard on all the things your future needs
And I offer to your dreams this guarantee:

If I could change the past, and somehow make things right,
or make the sun shine through the darkest, deepest night,
turn all your tears to laughter and stop this spinning world
That won't be enough for daddy's little girl.

If I could pave your way, and make your future bright,
pull down the stars and let you hold them just one night,
dry all your tears so you could laugh in a new world
That wouldn't be enough for daddy's little girl.

There's nothing I could do in this old crazy world
That would be enough for your daddy's little girl.

19 DEC 2005

OK, so I'll admit there's something dangerous about listening to Jerry Reed, Johnny Paycheck and Hank Williams Jr. while at work on a Thursday afternoon. Follow that up with dinner at a restaurant at the edge of a college town where you're likely to see obnoxious young punks dining across the room from farmers and truckdrivers, and it's a recipe for some kind of social commentary. Here goes.

My name is on my shirt, but that don't mean that I forgot
just who I am and where I learned the lessons I've been taught
about this world we're living in and how it got that way:
some people create garbage, and other folks scrub it away

I pump the gas you waste in your designer SUVs;
It's my sweat that delivers your brand new widescreen TVs;
I watch as you buy priviledge with handfuls of crisp new cash;
You may buy friends and influence, but that don't mean you've got class.

You say I'm redneck, poor white and blue,
not worth the future you're entitled to;
but it doesn't matter much what you might say.
The trash that you talk, folks like me wash away.

If it's broke, I can fix it and charge you an honest rate
while you laugh underneath your breath and think me an ingrate,
not thankful for the culture you ignore and would let die
without my servant class to keep your asses warm and dry.

I grow your food, construct your homes, and keep your golf course green
My friends and family fight your wars, and build your limousines
My face seems so familiar, but you can't recall my name
Down that great height you're looking from, we all look just the same

You say I'm a redneck, poor white and blue
not worth the effort it costs to improve
but it doesn't matter what you choose to say
The mess that you make, folks like me sweep away

Maybe I'm just redneck, poor white trash and blue
just one more hillbilly with nothing to lose.
one thing's for certain, and I know it's true:
except for the grace of God, I'd be like you.

15 DEC 2005

OK, there's a joke that runs something like this:

Q: If a hen and a half can lay an egg and a half in a day and a half, why is a cat like a sidewalk?
A: Because neither one of them can play the piano, of course.

In other words, life is often a scintillating series of surreal non sequiturs, and to the untrained, or unobservant eye, can seem to be nothing more than random, chaotic events.

Which brings me to my point of the day:

If you have never lived in the country, or have some actual genealogical ties to rural America, or at a minimum lived in proximity to the large masses of flyover country that border upon rural America, how authentic is your country music? If you don't know at least one farmer, let's say, or cowboy or rancher or sharecropper or cross-country truck driver or redneck-hillbilly-cracker-coonass-mudbug-hick, and you're not or haven't ever been one of the previous, how authentic can your expression of traditional rural music be?

It's one thing to exploit the milieu of a musical form, either in novelty or parody or insult. And it's another to pay tribute to a musical form that speaks to your heart or mind. To me, the majority of Americana artists out there today, particularly those who are considered alt.country, fall into one of these two camps. They've never seen a cow, or been beyond the Holland Tunnel, or traveled outside of a comfortable cellphone service area. Like today's punks, who can buy suits off the shelf on Melrose Avenue that have been ripped apart and safety pinned back together, they may buy clothes at Walmart or thrift stores but it's not because they HAVE to. It's because they are trying to portray a certain kind of image --- the kind that Old Navy with it's brand new "trucker" hats and Hot Topic with its pressed and freshly embossed Clash t-shirts --- an image that is not who THEY are. It's somebody else's dream (or considering the plight of the average farmer/truck driver, somebody else's nightmare). The truth is this: nobody who HAS to work in a shirt with their name on it really WANTS that kind of job. It's not cool to be covered in grease, or coal black, or road dust, or chicken feathers or cowshit. It's not cool to be looked down on by the vulture doctors and lawyers who infest small towns and use up three quarters of the phone book preying on their aging, gullible and high-risk-for-accident neighbors. It's not cool to speak with a drawl on a visit to New York and immediately be thought a moron or retarded, even though your IQ may be at least 20 points higher than the fast-talking, sharp-dressed go-getter who shoved their way in front of you in line at Starbucks.

As I've said before, part of the problem is that country music CANNOT be country music and have national significance. It is regional. Cajun music, while perhaps appreciated in Maine, is of both greater import and viriliity in Louisiana. What plays in Mecklenburg shouldn't be the same as what plays in Bakersfield, unless somebody from one is on tour in the other. Not to say that there shouldn't be cross-pollenization, or that one style can't learn from another. But what should be most important to country music fans should be LOCAL music first. And live music, at that.

It's about interpretation, filtered through experience, tempered by environment, forged by connection.

Or it ain't country music. It's, to paraphrase Johnny Cash, Nashville trying to sell records to folks who buy cowboy boots in New York City.

No use crying now, the worst has come and gone
What's left is learning how to carry on
With just the pieces of the world I knew
The broken life I'm living without you

No use in dwelling on what might have been
To try to stop the world's slow forward spin
Despite the way these memories linger on
The pieces left to me since you've been gone

How could you

Don't say there's nothing good on television.

The other day I was watching TV and a commercial came on that featured U2's The Edge walking through the toxic streets of New Orleans, picking up broken guitars. It then showed him handing a new guitar to an elderly blues musician.

Turns out Edge is the spokesman for a Nashville-based organization called Music Rising, which is in turn a segment of the MusiCares foundation, a relief fund to assist musicians who have been affected by natural disasters, war, etc. Music Rising is an ambitious program to put instruments back into the hands of every New Orleans (or other Katrina-area) musician who lost everything in the hurricane. Without the music of New Orleans people, Edge so accurately puts it, there's not much reason to rebuild, nor much really to do it with.

So I visited their website. What's required to apply for aid is demonstrated work in the music industry for at least five years, and also proof of residence in the hurricane disaster area. So I applied. And guess what? At the end of next week using a special phone number, I am callling Musician's Friend and placing an order for replacement instruments. Anything in stock at 25% off up to a specified limit (it's the same for everybody).

Musicians from New Orleans, Pay Attention to This

If you haven't already, and you qualify, sign up. I think time is running out, and they're working on a first-come, first-served basis. I believe you'll only have from the 16th to the 30th of this month to place your order, and it takes a couple of days for them to review your application in Nashville. So get on this, if you're a musician from New Orleans that's lost musical equipment. Believe me, this is a far better alternative than trying to justify buying a guitar before a new washer/dryer. And that FEMA/SBA money doesn't cover luxury or specialty items anyway.

Happy Christmas, yes?

Beneath the rust and the gray toxic dust
left behind when the water went down
past the edge of the Quarter's bright lights and disorder
there's nothing much left to this town

Maybe the Crescent City was never too pretty
for more than three blocks in a row,
but it made our lives fuller, regardless of color,
and now it's someplace no one else can know.

You may know what it means to miss New Orleans
from a Mardi Gras record or two
but what's gone's gone forever; rebuilding will never
bring back Nawlins rhythm or blues.

'Cause the heart of this city is broken in two
where the levees burst that afternoon;
and the warm welcome mat that asked "Hey, where ya't?"
won't be back again any time soon.

All the grand old traditions, corrupt politicians,
the trash tourists leave every year,
they're all gone, or in trouble, buried in the rubble
that may take a lifetime to clear.

What they bring back will not be
New Orleans, not to me;
the places they've saved just are not
more than pretty postcards
of wrought iron and front yards:
ghosts of the town that care forgot.

08 DEC 2005

What useful illusions we once had are gone:
that governments serve, that the lowliest pawns
with slow forward motion may yet become kings.
How quickly it seems that the simplest things

become complicated and mired in deceit,
and minor successes engulfed by defeat;
despite constant vigil and unending toil,
the fruits of one's labors will wither and spoil.

And those who claim otherwise, believing luck
to be the foundation of bargains yet struck,
are lost to insanity greater than most:
that we are prized guests of some kind, noble host

who when we plead hunger, will provide the bread.
'Tis more often shadows of crust, and instead
of a table of succulent dishes and wine,
more often takes form in less pleasant design.

What artifice leads us, in spite of these truths,
to believe in justice beyond tender youth
and strive for no purpose, for unseen reward,
each beyond the true means that they can afford,

to trust in a government built on such things
as man's dignity and hope's gossamer wings,
and think that the tightrope we cross at the top
of the tent has a net below for when we drop?

Illusion, illusion. There is little use
in hoping one's neck out of reach of the noose;
and justice? Like vultures, the lynch mob rides in,
an anonymous mask for a number of sins.

04 DEC 2005

If I could never be the one
to make you smile like you say he may have done
Then why do you always seem to run
to me?

If I could never take his place
to bring that smile you lost back to your face
Then why do you always seem to race
here to me?

Maybe it's just something that I'll never understand
Maybe it's your mystery that makes me give a damn
All that I can offer is to try the best I can
After all, I'm only one more man
who loves you.

If I could never be enough
to help you through when the times start getting tough
Then why do you always seem to need me
to back your your bluff?

If I could never understand
just what it takes to be your lover man
Then why do you always seem to stand
so close to me?

When you call me, what are you expecting me to say?
I will be your shoulder when you cry.
When you hold me close and whisper "what is there to do?"
What is it you want me to reply?

Maybe it's just something that I'll never understand
Maybe it's your mystery that makes me give a damn
All that I can do for you is try the best I can
but after all, I'm only one more man
who loves you.

Just another hopeless, foolish man
who loves you.

1993

One winter's night a number of years ago in Boston, I was huddled in my small studio apartment on Boylston Street near Berklee College of Music. It was a cold December evening, and as I recall I was broke and in fact sitting in the dark because the electric bill had not been paid. I did have a battery operated radio, however, and a squeaky and somewhat effective radiator in the corner, as well as a number of cigarette butts with a few drags on them. In other words, not rock bottom, but pretty near the shoals.

I have heard this song only once; that evening, and never again. But as soon as it finished on the radio, I picked up my guitar and wrote the following song.

When all the sad Romeos you call companions
have found their way back to the night;
and all your engagements for debutante stages
aren't coming as fast as they might;
when the crowd you enamored decides you're a scam
and finds some other queen for your throne,
and you're trying not to weep, trying to sleep, trying so hard
to forget that you're sleeping alone,

when your circle of friends fades to lines on the mirror
that tell you the years have gone by,
and your social connections just send their condolences
(sorry, they just can't stop by);
when the world outside your side of which you're so petrified
just might be nothing at all,
I'll be around when there's nobody else you can call.

When you've played Cleopatra and Anthony's gone,
and your lovers have found other roles;
when the rest of the blessed have begun to confess
they've no need for your broken down soul;
when your audience turns from compassion to apathy,
leaving the theater bare,
and you're trying not to weep, trying to sleep, trying so hard
to forget that there's nobody there;

when you're shunned like a leper by all the pretenders
you thought were your very best friends;
and the children you've raised turn their backs on you,
leaving you to wander alone 'til your end;
when you're old and turned gray, and they take you away
'cause you can't seem to find your way home,
I'll be around when you don't want to be all alone.

When all your imagined battalions of Galahads
fade back into the mist,
and you find your influence has faded to nothing
and you're not so hard to resist;
when those princes on horseback find some other maidens
to seek out and rescue from pain,
and you're trying not to weep, trying to sleep, trying so hard
to pretend that it's all still the same;

when the dreams you were promised turn out to be nightmares,
and all of your hopes turn to tears;
when your vanity fades and you pull down the shades
and think back on the faraway years;
when you're lost in the night, and even the cold moonlight
has left you, and you're all alone ---
I'll be around when you need me to take you back home.

You can come on home.

1993

There's nothing much that's happening
here in Undertown
since they closed the old refinery
and sent those pink slips 'round;
Down at Cheaters they're still drinking,
but the jukebox plays the sound of old frustrations.

It's been fourteen years and odd days
I've been working here;
no advancement but the worry
and lost time etched in mirror,
watching everything around me
but my memories disappear down at the station.

And all the boys still thinking of winning,
but the girls just want to dance;
we're all waiting for the times to change
so we can take our chance.
Me, I'm holding on to nothing
and it keeps bringing me down
See, there's quite a lot of nothing to go round
here in Undertown.

Before the cops cracked down
on heavy drinking in the square
You could sit watching the girls
pretending that you weren't there
With a sixer and a dime bag
and a half a pack of Kools, what did you care?

But Billy Dean got himself married
and you won't see him around
And Carlton Healy got religion
when a crusade came to town

Me, I've got a wife and daughter
and just look like some old clown hanging down there

And all the boys think they're important,
but the girls don't go for that
We're all waiting for some action,
sitting here and getting fat
Me, I'm holding out for something
and it keeps me coming 'round
Trying to get something from nothing in this town.

There's nothing much that goes on
here in Undertown
Since they closed the swimming pool
when Eddie Franklin went and drowned
Down at Cheater's they're still drinking,
cursing fate but too far gone to try to blame it

It's been fourteen years since I came back
and found another rut
The façade keeps getting older
while it's holding in its gut
And the paint is cracked and peeling,
but there's still no telling what is going to change it

Yeah, all the boys think they mean business
but the girls know it's a lie
We're all wanting firewater
but the well has long run dry
Me, I'm holding on to anything
to keep from going down
See, there's lot's of time to lose it in this town.

1999