Saturday, January 24, 2009
*"The Front" In Song- Richard And Mimi Farina's "House Un-American Activities Blues Dream"
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Richard and Mimi Farina performing their musical take on HUAC- "The House Un-American Activities Blues Dream".
Friday, January 23, 2009
***Larry McMurtry’s “Telegraph Days”- Thoroughly Modern…Nellie- A Modern Man Looks At The Old West
Click on title to link to Larry McMurtry's other career as a review of, mostly, Old West literature and themes, for the "New York Review Of Books"
Book Review
Telegraph Days: A Novel, Larry McMurtry, Pocket Star Books, New York, 2006
This is something of an encore by the reviewer of the work of Texas writer, bibliophile, pack rat and Old West aficionado Larry McMurtry. This space is strewn with reviews of his work, good and bad. The centerpiece of the reviews has thus far been “The Last Picture Show “series but I have commented on other efforts, in modern settings and from the Old West. I have also commented on McMurtry’s successes (and failures) in attempting to use a female narrator to put forth his viewpoint. This has been, I am afraid, a very iffy proposition. Nevertheless, here in the character of the post-modern (oops) Old West female narrator and Type –A personality Nellie Courtright he has hit pay dirt.
Old Nellie tells her saga of her interaction with the lives, lust, loves and sheer balderdash of many of the iconic figures of the Old West in the last third of the 19th century like Bill Cody, The Earps and (be still my heart) Bill Hickok, warts and all. And along the way she tells us how it was to be an ‘uppity’ (and successful) professional woman in what was very much a man’s world (and least that has been how it has always advertised). Then there is, this is a novel after all, the bravado and bragging of her various sexual exploits that may, or may not, have made grandmother blush. All in all a fast read and although not a classic McMurtry effort not bad compared with some of his other later work. I commented elsewhere that he seemed to be running out of steam in his late work. This effort staunches that a little.
Book Review
Telegraph Days: A Novel, Larry McMurtry, Pocket Star Books, New York, 2006
This is something of an encore by the reviewer of the work of Texas writer, bibliophile, pack rat and Old West aficionado Larry McMurtry. This space is strewn with reviews of his work, good and bad. The centerpiece of the reviews has thus far been “The Last Picture Show “series but I have commented on other efforts, in modern settings and from the Old West. I have also commented on McMurtry’s successes (and failures) in attempting to use a female narrator to put forth his viewpoint. This has been, I am afraid, a very iffy proposition. Nevertheless, here in the character of the post-modern (oops) Old West female narrator and Type –A personality Nellie Courtright he has hit pay dirt.
Old Nellie tells her saga of her interaction with the lives, lust, loves and sheer balderdash of many of the iconic figures of the Old West in the last third of the 19th century like Bill Cody, The Earps and (be still my heart) Bill Hickok, warts and all. And along the way she tells us how it was to be an ‘uppity’ (and successful) professional woman in what was very much a man’s world (and least that has been how it has always advertised). Then there is, this is a novel after all, the bravado and bragging of her various sexual exploits that may, or may not, have made grandmother blush. All in all a fast read and although not a classic McMurtry effort not bad compared with some of his other later work. I commented elsewhere that he seemed to be running out of steam in his late work. This effort staunches that a little.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Anti-War Slogans For The Obama Regime-U.S. Hands Off The World!
Commentary
I previewed these comments on November 12, 2008. As Senator Barack Obama takes office as the 44th President of the United States these are fighting slogans for those who want to struggle against war and American imperialism. More, much more later.
This is one of those short and sweet commentaries because frankly it has all been said before and merely bears repeating here:
Okay, now the “anti-war” Democratic presidential candidate has won and on January 20, 2009 will succeed to the office of American imperialist president-in-chief. That means, well-intentioned or not, Senator Barack Obama will be the new sheriff in town, and will act accordingly. So, just to steal a little of the Senator’s thunder, for surely the election of a black person to the highest office in historically racially tense America is significant, if for no other reason that to not forget what this struggle is all about. First and foremost- Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal From Iraq and Afghanistan. Hands Off Iran. Hands Off Pakistan, and just to be on the safe side- U.S. Hands Off The World! Sorry, Senator but there are no “100 day” honeymoons on this front. More importantly, anti-warriors are you listening? And are you ready to fight Obama under those slogans when he comes up short?
I previewed these comments on November 12, 2008. As Senator Barack Obama takes office as the 44th President of the United States these are fighting slogans for those who want to struggle against war and American imperialism. More, much more later.
This is one of those short and sweet commentaries because frankly it has all been said before and merely bears repeating here:
Okay, now the “anti-war” Democratic presidential candidate has won and on January 20, 2009 will succeed to the office of American imperialist president-in-chief. That means, well-intentioned or not, Senator Barack Obama will be the new sheriff in town, and will act accordingly. So, just to steal a little of the Senator’s thunder, for surely the election of a black person to the highest office in historically racially tense America is significant, if for no other reason that to not forget what this struggle is all about. First and foremost- Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal From Iraq and Afghanistan. Hands Off Iran. Hands Off Pakistan, and just to be on the safe side- U.S. Hands Off The World! Sorry, Senator but there are no “100 day” honeymoons on this front. More importantly, anti-warriors are you listening? And are you ready to fight Obama under those slogans when he comes up short?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
*Long Live The Memory of the Slave General Spartacus- Howard Fast's Novelistic Treatment
Click on title to link to Wikipedia's entry for the writer Howard Fast.
Book Review
Spartacus, Howard Fast, North Castle Books, New York, 1951
In one of the ironies of political life I found a copy of this book under review, Spartacus by Howard Fast, in the Young Adult section of the local library. The irony in 2008 is that the author had been among those who early on were blacklisted as Communists, communist sympathizers or dupes during the “night of the long knives” of the McCarthy era in the 1950’s. At that time this book would not only have been proscribed from the library shelves but would have been burned in the public square of this particular town. Why? Well, aside from the author’s then communist sympathies the serious novelistic presentation of the class struggle between free citizens and chattel slaves in ancient Rome was not a fit subject for young minds, or old. Throw in some sexual candid (for the time) descriptions of Roman mores and more than a hint of the bi-sexual or homosexual natures of some of the Roman characters and the book is clearly beyond the pale. So there you have a snapshot of the politics behind the history of the book. But there is more.
The impetus for getting this book out of the library was, as is usually the case when possible, to compare it to the film version that I have previously reviewed in this space. The purpose, mainly, was to compare how true the story line of the film was to the novel. As mentioned in the film review, a fellow blacklistee of Fast's(one who could not write, as least publicly, under his or her own name during the 1950’s due to the political atmosphere) Dalton Trumbo wrote the screenplay. He did not do a bad job of getting the main point out- that eternal need for freedom from the oppressive boot heel of the ruling class- for a commercial film in the more restrictive 1950’s and early 1960’s but the book really is a much better bet if you are looking for a non-academic treatment of the class struggle in ancient Rome (or with appropriate updating now, for that matter).
I have long noted, as others who have studied the question have as well, that oppression oppresses both the oppressed and the oppressor. (Ouch!, for the awkwardness of this sentence.). The dramatic and psychological tension here between the Roman General Crassus (played by Laurence Olivier in the film) who finally defeats the slave General Spartacus is central to that premise. Along the way we get a serious look at the class structure of pre-Christian Rome, it entertainments and its follies, the dagger-like tensions between slave and master and everyone in between, a close look at the military structure of the Roman legions that made it the most feared army in the then known world and the “guerrilla” tactics of the slave armies and more than our fair share about the fate of rebellious slaves who do not win-capital punishment by crucifixion.
As to comparisons between the film and novel in the film Spartacus (in the person of Kirk Douglas) is front and center in person from the first few minutes and the story unfolds from his transfer from a desert mine to the gladiator school at Capua (the owner played by Peter Ustinov) through the gladiator uprising and the various attempts to break the Roman legions and leave Italy. In the book the story is told in reverse, after the defeat and death of Spartacus, the whole Servile War period is summed up by reflections back on those events by the other characters. Of course the love story between Spartacus and Varania (played by Jean Simmons) is more muted. All in all, if you take the three hours to view the film then you really should read Fast’s novel. Then you will know why we proudly honor the name and exploits of Spartacus in left-wing politics even today.
Book Review
Spartacus, Howard Fast, North Castle Books, New York, 1951
In one of the ironies of political life I found a copy of this book under review, Spartacus by Howard Fast, in the Young Adult section of the local library. The irony in 2008 is that the author had been among those who early on were blacklisted as Communists, communist sympathizers or dupes during the “night of the long knives” of the McCarthy era in the 1950’s. At that time this book would not only have been proscribed from the library shelves but would have been burned in the public square of this particular town. Why? Well, aside from the author’s then communist sympathies the serious novelistic presentation of the class struggle between free citizens and chattel slaves in ancient Rome was not a fit subject for young minds, or old. Throw in some sexual candid (for the time) descriptions of Roman mores and more than a hint of the bi-sexual or homosexual natures of some of the Roman characters and the book is clearly beyond the pale. So there you have a snapshot of the politics behind the history of the book. But there is more.
The impetus for getting this book out of the library was, as is usually the case when possible, to compare it to the film version that I have previously reviewed in this space. The purpose, mainly, was to compare how true the story line of the film was to the novel. As mentioned in the film review, a fellow blacklistee of Fast's(one who could not write, as least publicly, under his or her own name during the 1950’s due to the political atmosphere) Dalton Trumbo wrote the screenplay. He did not do a bad job of getting the main point out- that eternal need for freedom from the oppressive boot heel of the ruling class- for a commercial film in the more restrictive 1950’s and early 1960’s but the book really is a much better bet if you are looking for a non-academic treatment of the class struggle in ancient Rome (or with appropriate updating now, for that matter).
I have long noted, as others who have studied the question have as well, that oppression oppresses both the oppressed and the oppressor. (Ouch!, for the awkwardness of this sentence.). The dramatic and psychological tension here between the Roman General Crassus (played by Laurence Olivier in the film) who finally defeats the slave General Spartacus is central to that premise. Along the way we get a serious look at the class structure of pre-Christian Rome, it entertainments and its follies, the dagger-like tensions between slave and master and everyone in between, a close look at the military structure of the Roman legions that made it the most feared army in the then known world and the “guerrilla” tactics of the slave armies and more than our fair share about the fate of rebellious slaves who do not win-capital punishment by crucifixion.
As to comparisons between the film and novel in the film Spartacus (in the person of Kirk Douglas) is front and center in person from the first few minutes and the story unfolds from his transfer from a desert mine to the gladiator school at Capua (the owner played by Peter Ustinov) through the gladiator uprising and the various attempts to break the Roman legions and leave Italy. In the book the story is told in reverse, after the defeat and death of Spartacus, the whole Servile War period is summed up by reflections back on those events by the other characters. Of course the love story between Spartacus and Varania (played by Jean Simmons) is more muted. All in all, if you take the three hours to view the film then you really should read Fast’s novel. Then you will know why we proudly honor the name and exploits of Spartacus in left-wing politics even today.
*A Greg Brown Encore-“Covenant”
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown (with producer Bo Ramsey) performing "Dream City".
CD Review
Covenant, Greg Brown, produced by Bo Ramsey, Red House Records, 2000
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are “dream city”, “pretty one more time”, and “waiting on you”.
As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
Waiting on You
waiting on you waiting on you
is about all i do
another night another day
i'm waiting on you
& i don't know why i
keep waiting on you
make up your mind make up your mind
why don't you
it'd be kind it'd be kinder
you know it's true
& i don't know why i
keep waiting on you
yes or no yes or no
what's it gonna be
i can't live on dreams & maybe
& i don't know why i
keep waiting on you
one of these days i'm gonna go away from this
without a why without a cry without a kiss
then you'll know what it is with this deal
then you'll feel what it is that i feel
& even if you don't
at least i won't
be waiting on you
Living in a Prayer
everybody looks like someone i just saw five minutes ago
if i looked too far in the mirror i know i'd have to run
from copper harbour way down to acapulco
where the sun shines on the moon & the moon gives it back to everyone
i'm living in a prayer
every time i turn around some ghost wants to buy me a beer
feel like i'm living in a trashy novel where plot's the only thing
the fire's out the smoke has blown but still nothing is clear
i could swear it's a summer day but then why am i freezing
i should be there
why god let us meet at this time i have no idea
maybe i have paid for my sins by now or i don't have long to live
the meadowlark's song in the evening is not as sweet as the one you sing to me
i will dig deep in my pockets
see what boyhood treasures i can give
you should be here
i should be there
long as i'm in your heart
i'm living in a prayer
Dream City
i'm living in dream city
lost in dreams of you
i'm living in dream city
dreaming is all i do
they're gonna cut off my water
unplug my telephone
if i don't stop my dreaming
i will be out on the street alone
i'm living in dream city
dreaming i'm holding you near
& this is where i'll be
until you give me
a ride out of here
it's such a fine city
i'm running down the halls
it's a red wine city
i'm bumping into walls
i'm living in a palace
i go from room to room
close my eyes & see you
i'm just chasing your perfume
i'm living in dream city
& the rent is rising fast
i'm living in dream city
i don't know how long i can last
if you had never hugged me
my feet would still touch the ground
if you had never kissed me
i'd be back in my hometown
Lullaby
i look at you & i think of bed
you move so cool & freely
& i know what's going on in your head
oh babe you make me sleepy
& we've been married all these years
we know each other deeply
& oh my dear oh my dear
you still make me sleepy
the children they are nearly grown
& ain't they turned out sweetly
they're out tonight & we're alone
& oh babe you make me sleepy
i know your stories you know mine
but tell that one again to me
about the wet woods & the red wine
oh babe it makes me sleepy
you make me feel like lying down
let your hair down completely
when you pull on that raggedyass old cotton nightgown
oh babe you make me sleepy
since we first met & i gave you that twirl
i know nothing can defeat me
not as long as you're my girl
oh babe you make me sleepy
& in your arms i sleep so fine
so well do you meet me
& you can wake me any time
oh babe i ain't that sleepy
Blue Car
i'm driving my blue car baby
down from the mountain so high
i'm driving my blue car baby
coming down to say goodbye
the sunrise is a miracle
but it can't hold a candle to you
do you remember them rides in my blue car
back when it was brand new
well it's a good old car
but the clutch is a little loose
and the brakes are screaming
a song called what's the use
but it's good for one more trip
one more trip to you
the lightning's meant to strike
the tall pine trees
& the birds are meant to cry
& wheel in the breeze
but some things baby
i guess they just ain't meant to be
when i get back up on the mountain
i'll close my door against the wind
i'll park my old blue car
i may fall down the mountain
but i will never fall in love again
Walkin' Daddy
i'm walkin' daddy in the steps that you put down
i'm walkin' daddy & i know not where I'm bound
i'm walkin' daddy this road is dark & long
i'm walkin' daddy & your blood is in me strong
i'm walkin' daddy where the jack's fork river bends
down in missouri where the jack's fork river bends
with you & ma & my sister & with all my dear friends
you're walkin' daddy off through the woods you old hillbilly
you said "this is my son in whom I am well pleased"
ain't no road a good road until it's free to everyone
we're walkin' daddy father holy ghost & son
ain't no sorrow can dim the love comes shining through
i'm walkin' daddy I know what I am here to do
to be of use try to help the deal along
i'm walkin' daddy & i'm just gonna keep walkin' on
Pretty One More Time
all the leaves are turning
& the fields are clear
there's a fire burning
i wish you were here
pretty one more time
pretty one more time
before we're down the line
pretty one more time
& the light is raining
from a midwest sky
i'm all through explaining
goodbye to goodbye
it's getting dark so early
i walked all afternoon
all i see so clearly
will be gone so soon
& a dim light beckons
from a roadside bar
i'll stop in i reckon
i have already come this far
find a place by the window
i've been here before
babe don't be a no-show
come on through that door
i'll write you a letter
i know you feel the fall
things may not get better
but we can always stall
CD Review
Covenant, Greg Brown, produced by Bo Ramsey, Red House Records, 2000
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are “dream city”, “pretty one more time”, and “waiting on you”.
As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
Waiting on You
waiting on you waiting on you
is about all i do
another night another day
i'm waiting on you
& i don't know why i
keep waiting on you
make up your mind make up your mind
why don't you
it'd be kind it'd be kinder
you know it's true
& i don't know why i
keep waiting on you
yes or no yes or no
what's it gonna be
i can't live on dreams & maybe
& i don't know why i
keep waiting on you
one of these days i'm gonna go away from this
without a why without a cry without a kiss
then you'll know what it is with this deal
then you'll feel what it is that i feel
& even if you don't
at least i won't
be waiting on you
Living in a Prayer
everybody looks like someone i just saw five minutes ago
if i looked too far in the mirror i know i'd have to run
from copper harbour way down to acapulco
where the sun shines on the moon & the moon gives it back to everyone
i'm living in a prayer
every time i turn around some ghost wants to buy me a beer
feel like i'm living in a trashy novel where plot's the only thing
the fire's out the smoke has blown but still nothing is clear
i could swear it's a summer day but then why am i freezing
i should be there
why god let us meet at this time i have no idea
maybe i have paid for my sins by now or i don't have long to live
the meadowlark's song in the evening is not as sweet as the one you sing to me
i will dig deep in my pockets
see what boyhood treasures i can give
you should be here
i should be there
long as i'm in your heart
i'm living in a prayer
Dream City
i'm living in dream city
lost in dreams of you
i'm living in dream city
dreaming is all i do
they're gonna cut off my water
unplug my telephone
if i don't stop my dreaming
i will be out on the street alone
i'm living in dream city
dreaming i'm holding you near
& this is where i'll be
until you give me
a ride out of here
it's such a fine city
i'm running down the halls
it's a red wine city
i'm bumping into walls
i'm living in a palace
i go from room to room
close my eyes & see you
i'm just chasing your perfume
i'm living in dream city
& the rent is rising fast
i'm living in dream city
i don't know how long i can last
if you had never hugged me
my feet would still touch the ground
if you had never kissed me
i'd be back in my hometown
Lullaby
i look at you & i think of bed
you move so cool & freely
& i know what's going on in your head
oh babe you make me sleepy
& we've been married all these years
we know each other deeply
& oh my dear oh my dear
you still make me sleepy
the children they are nearly grown
& ain't they turned out sweetly
they're out tonight & we're alone
& oh babe you make me sleepy
i know your stories you know mine
but tell that one again to me
about the wet woods & the red wine
oh babe it makes me sleepy
you make me feel like lying down
let your hair down completely
when you pull on that raggedyass old cotton nightgown
oh babe you make me sleepy
since we first met & i gave you that twirl
i know nothing can defeat me
not as long as you're my girl
oh babe you make me sleepy
& in your arms i sleep so fine
so well do you meet me
& you can wake me any time
oh babe i ain't that sleepy
Blue Car
i'm driving my blue car baby
down from the mountain so high
i'm driving my blue car baby
coming down to say goodbye
the sunrise is a miracle
but it can't hold a candle to you
do you remember them rides in my blue car
back when it was brand new
well it's a good old car
but the clutch is a little loose
and the brakes are screaming
a song called what's the use
but it's good for one more trip
one more trip to you
the lightning's meant to strike
the tall pine trees
& the birds are meant to cry
& wheel in the breeze
but some things baby
i guess they just ain't meant to be
when i get back up on the mountain
i'll close my door against the wind
i'll park my old blue car
i may fall down the mountain
but i will never fall in love again
Walkin' Daddy
i'm walkin' daddy in the steps that you put down
i'm walkin' daddy & i know not where I'm bound
i'm walkin' daddy this road is dark & long
i'm walkin' daddy & your blood is in me strong
i'm walkin' daddy where the jack's fork river bends
down in missouri where the jack's fork river bends
with you & ma & my sister & with all my dear friends
you're walkin' daddy off through the woods you old hillbilly
you said "this is my son in whom I am well pleased"
ain't no road a good road until it's free to everyone
we're walkin' daddy father holy ghost & son
ain't no sorrow can dim the love comes shining through
i'm walkin' daddy I know what I am here to do
to be of use try to help the deal along
i'm walkin' daddy & i'm just gonna keep walkin' on
Pretty One More Time
all the leaves are turning
& the fields are clear
there's a fire burning
i wish you were here
pretty one more time
pretty one more time
before we're down the line
pretty one more time
& the light is raining
from a midwest sky
i'm all through explaining
goodbye to goodbye
it's getting dark so early
i walked all afternoon
all i see so clearly
will be gone so soon
& a dim light beckons
from a roadside bar
i'll stop in i reckon
i have already come this far
find a place by the window
i've been here before
babe don't be a no-show
come on through that door
i'll write you a letter
i know you feel the fall
things may not get better
but we can always stall
*A Greg Brown Encore- The Best Of Early Greg Brown…. “If I Had Known”
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown (with Bo Ramsey) performing "If I Had Known".
CD/DVD Review
If I Had Known: Essential Recordings, 1980-1996 , Greg Brown, Red House Records, 2003
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here in this version of a “greatest hits” –style albums are: the title track “If I Had Known”, “Canned Goods”, “The Train Carrying Jimmy Rodgers Home”, Where Is Maria”, and the classic “The Poet Game”. As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
"Boomtown"
Here come the artists with their intense faces,
with their need for money and quiet spaces.
They leave New York, they leave L.A..
Here they are - who knows how long they'll stay -
[chorus:]
It's a Boomtown
got another Boomtown
and it'll boom
just as long as boom has room.
Here come the tourists with their blank stares,
with their fanny packs - they are penny millionaires.
Something interesting happened here long time ago.
Now where people used to live their lives the restless
come and go.
[repeat chorus]
Nice to meet you, nice to see you
in a sheepskin coat made in Korea.
Welcome to the new age, the new century.
Welcome to a town with no real reason to be.
[repeat chorus]
The rich build sensitive houses and pass their staff around.
For the rest of us, it's trailers on the outskirts of town.
We carry them their coffee, wash their shiny cars,
hear all about how lucky we are
to be living in a ...
[repeat chorus]
The guy from California moves in and relaxes.
The natives have to move - they cannot pay the taxes.
Santa Fe has had it. Sedona has, too.
Maybe you'll be lucky - maybe your town will be the new...
[repeat chorus]
"The Poet Game"
Down by the river junior year
walking with my girl,
and we came upon a place
there in the tall grass where a couple
had been making love
and left the mark of their embrace.
I said to her, "Looks like they had some fun."
She said to me, "Let's do the same."
and still I taste her kisses
and her freckles in the sun
when I play the poet game.
A young man down in hill country
in the year of '22
went to see his future bride.
She lived in a rough old shack
that poverty blew through.
She invited him inside.
She'd been cooking, ashamed and feeling sad,
she could only offer him bread and her name -
Grandpa said that it was the best gift
a fella ever had
and he taught me the poet game.
I had a friend who drank too much
and played too much guitar -
and we sure got along.
Reel-to-reels rolled across
the country near and far
with letters poems and songs..
but these days he don't talk to me
and he won't tell me why.
I miss him every time i say his name.
I don't know what he's doing
or why our friendship died
while we played the poet game.
The fall rain was pounding down
on an old New Hampshire mill
and the river wild and high.
I was talking to her while leaves blew down
like a sudden chill -
there was wildness in her eyes.
We made love like we'd been waiting
all of our lives for this -
Strangers know no shame -
But she had to leave at dawn
and with a sticky farewell kiss
left me to play the poet game.
I watched my country turn into
a coast-to-coast strip mall
and I cried out in a song:
if we could do all that in thirty years,
then please tell me you all -
why does good change take so long?
Why does the color of your skin
or who you choose to love
still lead to such anger and pain?
And why do I think it's any help
for me to still dream of
playing the poet game?
Sirens wail above the fields -
another soul gone down -
another Sun about to rise.
I've lost track of my mistakes,
like birds they fly around
and darken half of my skies.
To all of those I've hurt -
I pray you'll forgive me.
I to you will freely do the same.
so many things I didn't see,
with my eyes turned inside,
playing the poet game.
I walk out at night to take a leak
underneath the stars -
oh yeah that's the life for me.
There's Orion and the Pleiades
and I guess that must be Mars -
all as clear as we long to be.
I've sung what I was given -
some was bad and some was good.
I never did know from where it came
and if I had it all to do again
I am not sure I would
play the poet game.
"Ballingall Hotel"
I said I'd never come to this ugly old hotel again.
Baby, here I am.
I said I'd never knock again on # 22
Baby, how are you?
Some nights something grabs you and
you don't even know what it is.
Give me a kiss.
Leave that black slip on and dance just like you
did last time.
I'm so glad your plans for leaving fell through -
just like mine.
Ain't no air conditioning, the ceiling fan don't work
too well.
Guess we'll have to sweat it out again at the
Ballingal Hotel.
One night I knocked on the wrong door
and myself as an old man answered - so drunk
and so poor.
I said I'd never come again to this ugly old hotel -
but what the hell.
"One Wrong Turn"
[chorus:]
One wrong turn is all it takes
and there ain't many signs -
you only get a few breaks.
Some get more. Some get less.
One wrong turn leads to the next.
The days go slow and the years go fast.
The future you look for is soon the past.
You seldom end up where you thought you would.
One wrong turn can change it all for good.
[repeat chorus]
Love ain't a hug. Love ain't a kiss.
Love is every day doing this, that, this.
We put in our time and we put in our heart.
One wrong turn can tear it all apart.
[repeat chorus]
Where's that little house with the porch light on
in a stand of cedar and the highway gone -
Good smells of cooking and the garden loam -
I'd have thought by now I'd have found my home.
[repeat chorus]
"Jesus & Elvis"
Jesus had some water, said "Wine'd be better yet".
Elvis picked up a guitar and made all women wet.
Elvis he died young - Jesus he died younger.
Elvis died of too much - Jesus died of hunger.
Jesus sang down through the ages: "Do like you'd have'em
do you".
Elvis rocked the universe with be-bop-a-lu-la -
Now here they are on black velvet, in a parking lot in
Missouri -
rocking my soul with rock'n'roll, soulful harmony.
Jesus went back to heaven to be the King of Kings,
but I hear the King of Rock'n'Roll is still restlessly
roaming.
Go on home to Jesus, El - he's waiting there you'll find.
You two can jam on old gospel songs - them are the best
kind.
CD/DVD Review
If I Had Known: Essential Recordings, 1980-1996 , Greg Brown, Red House Records, 2003
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here in this version of a “greatest hits” –style albums are: the title track “If I Had Known”, “Canned Goods”, “The Train Carrying Jimmy Rodgers Home”, Where Is Maria”, and the classic “The Poet Game”. As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
"Boomtown"
Here come the artists with their intense faces,
with their need for money and quiet spaces.
They leave New York, they leave L.A..
Here they are - who knows how long they'll stay -
[chorus:]
It's a Boomtown
got another Boomtown
and it'll boom
just as long as boom has room.
Here come the tourists with their blank stares,
with their fanny packs - they are penny millionaires.
Something interesting happened here long time ago.
Now where people used to live their lives the restless
come and go.
[repeat chorus]
Nice to meet you, nice to see you
in a sheepskin coat made in Korea.
Welcome to the new age, the new century.
Welcome to a town with no real reason to be.
[repeat chorus]
The rich build sensitive houses and pass their staff around.
For the rest of us, it's trailers on the outskirts of town.
We carry them their coffee, wash their shiny cars,
hear all about how lucky we are
to be living in a ...
[repeat chorus]
The guy from California moves in and relaxes.
The natives have to move - they cannot pay the taxes.
Santa Fe has had it. Sedona has, too.
Maybe you'll be lucky - maybe your town will be the new...
[repeat chorus]
"The Poet Game"
Down by the river junior year
walking with my girl,
and we came upon a place
there in the tall grass where a couple
had been making love
and left the mark of their embrace.
I said to her, "Looks like they had some fun."
She said to me, "Let's do the same."
and still I taste her kisses
and her freckles in the sun
when I play the poet game.
A young man down in hill country
in the year of '22
went to see his future bride.
She lived in a rough old shack
that poverty blew through.
She invited him inside.
She'd been cooking, ashamed and feeling sad,
she could only offer him bread and her name -
Grandpa said that it was the best gift
a fella ever had
and he taught me the poet game.
I had a friend who drank too much
and played too much guitar -
and we sure got along.
Reel-to-reels rolled across
the country near and far
with letters poems and songs..
but these days he don't talk to me
and he won't tell me why.
I miss him every time i say his name.
I don't know what he's doing
or why our friendship died
while we played the poet game.
The fall rain was pounding down
on an old New Hampshire mill
and the river wild and high.
I was talking to her while leaves blew down
like a sudden chill -
there was wildness in her eyes.
We made love like we'd been waiting
all of our lives for this -
Strangers know no shame -
But she had to leave at dawn
and with a sticky farewell kiss
left me to play the poet game.
I watched my country turn into
a coast-to-coast strip mall
and I cried out in a song:
if we could do all that in thirty years,
then please tell me you all -
why does good change take so long?
Why does the color of your skin
or who you choose to love
still lead to such anger and pain?
And why do I think it's any help
for me to still dream of
playing the poet game?
Sirens wail above the fields -
another soul gone down -
another Sun about to rise.
I've lost track of my mistakes,
like birds they fly around
and darken half of my skies.
To all of those I've hurt -
I pray you'll forgive me.
I to you will freely do the same.
so many things I didn't see,
with my eyes turned inside,
playing the poet game.
I walk out at night to take a leak
underneath the stars -
oh yeah that's the life for me.
There's Orion and the Pleiades
and I guess that must be Mars -
all as clear as we long to be.
I've sung what I was given -
some was bad and some was good.
I never did know from where it came
and if I had it all to do again
I am not sure I would
play the poet game.
"Ballingall Hotel"
I said I'd never come to this ugly old hotel again.
Baby, here I am.
I said I'd never knock again on # 22
Baby, how are you?
Some nights something grabs you and
you don't even know what it is.
Give me a kiss.
Leave that black slip on and dance just like you
did last time.
I'm so glad your plans for leaving fell through -
just like mine.
Ain't no air conditioning, the ceiling fan don't work
too well.
Guess we'll have to sweat it out again at the
Ballingal Hotel.
One night I knocked on the wrong door
and myself as an old man answered - so drunk
and so poor.
I said I'd never come again to this ugly old hotel -
but what the hell.
"One Wrong Turn"
[chorus:]
One wrong turn is all it takes
and there ain't many signs -
you only get a few breaks.
Some get more. Some get less.
One wrong turn leads to the next.
The days go slow and the years go fast.
The future you look for is soon the past.
You seldom end up where you thought you would.
One wrong turn can change it all for good.
[repeat chorus]
Love ain't a hug. Love ain't a kiss.
Love is every day doing this, that, this.
We put in our time and we put in our heart.
One wrong turn can tear it all apart.
[repeat chorus]
Where's that little house with the porch light on
in a stand of cedar and the highway gone -
Good smells of cooking and the garden loam -
I'd have thought by now I'd have found my home.
[repeat chorus]
"Jesus & Elvis"
Jesus had some water, said "Wine'd be better yet".
Elvis picked up a guitar and made all women wet.
Elvis he died young - Jesus he died younger.
Elvis died of too much - Jesus died of hunger.
Jesus sang down through the ages: "Do like you'd have'em
do you".
Elvis rocked the universe with be-bop-a-lu-la -
Now here they are on black velvet, in a parking lot in
Missouri -
rocking my soul with rock'n'roll, soulful harmony.
Jesus went back to heaven to be the King of Kings,
but I hear the King of Rock'n'Roll is still restlessly
roaming.
Go on home to Jesus, El - he's waiting there you'll find.
You two can jam on old gospel songs - them are the best
kind.
*A Greg Brown Encore-Songs Of Love, Lost, Lust-“Milk Of The Moon”
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown performing "Better Days".
CD Review
Milk Of The Moon, Greg Brown, Red House Records, 2002
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are “Smell Of Coffee”, the title track “Milk Of The Moon”, “Ashamed Of Our Love”, “Oh You”. As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
Smell of Coffee
Bouffant hairdo, ne'er-do-well
Warm the car up, perfume smell
Work is there when love is gone
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Pheasant clucking, ice cold dew
Backseat shotgun, frosty slough
Chevy coughing, let's move on
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Hey there, Benny, is this your home?
Railroad cinders, styrofoam
Train a-comin', where's Lost John?
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Blue blue window, factory
Big bad boss man can't find me
Boxes piled up, paycheck gone
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Woman works and man does too
Yellow paper, same old news
Forty years to cross the lawn
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Milk of the Moon
Morning is a siren, evening is a bust
Memories fade, pocketful of dust
I moan to you like a mourning dove
Mistakes are made along with love
On the day you opened up the door
I saw the future slip away, time is just a whore
If you can get any closer, oh please do
I can only dance when I dance with you
I'm drunk on moonmilk, I'm high up in the air
I know a woman she is silk there and there and there
With a kiss she wakes me up, she always leaves too soon
As she does she fills my cup with the milk of the moon
Open up the window, smell the rain
I kiss the pillow where your head has lain
Open up your wild and secret heart
And your flower, the tenderest part
I don't know when we'll meet again
Now will have to do 'til then
In a bed hot and wet like tears
We slept one night for years and years and years
I'm drunk on moonmilk, I'm high up in the air
I know a woman she is silk there and there and there
With a kiss she wakes me up, she always leaves too soon
As she does she fills my cup with the milk of the moon
Your gifts I'll cherish and I'll save
The look I see upon your face is the only thing I crave
When you're gone I'll try to get some rest
And dream you sleeping on my chest
I'll send you songs to carry you to sleep
Won't be so long we'll have this watch to keep
Loving you is the best I know of home
I'll be thinking of you hard hard hard as I open up my arms
I'm drunk on moonmilk, I'm high up in the air
Oh, woman, you are silk there and there and there
With a kiss you wake me up, you always leave too soon
As you go will you fill my cup with the milk of the moon?
Mud
Got a movie in my mind tonight
Grainy and jumpin', black and white
And I got my neck in close to yours
I can smell you and we're out of doors
You hold me close, I don't know
I hold you tight, I don't have to let go
In the dirt or somethin', somethin's wet
The sky is cloudy like the day we met
I can see through your eyes, things are big
Oh my heart is joy, things are big
Things are bigger, things are huge
Ah, the world comes in us like we want it to
I reach down slowly, down there someplace
Mmm, I get some mud, rub it on your face
And you do the same, and you kiss my blood
And here we are, ah, meeting in the mud
Ah, meeting in the mud
Yeah, meeting in the mud
Oh yeah, meeting in the mud
Yeah, yes, meeting in the mud.....
Ashamed of Our Love
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Our love had room for everyone
Our love had room for everyone
Our love had room for everyone
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Why wouldn't you stand up for us?
Why wouldn't you stand up for us?
Our love had room for everyone
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Lies kill any beautiful thing
Why wouldn't you stand up for us?
Our love had room for everyone
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Steady Love
She wants your passion, your caress
She wants your hands on her and a soulful kiss
But she's lookin' for more than just that, son
Gotta be somethin' under all the good times and fun
Oh steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
She might like flowers, might like a poem
Might like it better if you were home
And cooked with her and did a little dance
Where the kitchen is happy, love has a chance
Oh steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
She's seen the cool boys hangin' around
With their sad dark eyes they never settle down
They might've written books or made CDs for the shelves
But they mostly just think about themselves
She wants steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
When the kids are cryin' and the bills are due
And you wonder what you have gotten into
And you think the whole deal is not to be
Give her steady love, you'll find out how hot a woman can be
Steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
I've heard men say, "Well look at that
She's such a babe, he's kinda dull, a little fat"
He must know something about kind and fair
When she needs somebody, the man is there
He gives her steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
Mmmm, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
(Repeat, repeat) I can't stop!
CD Review
Milk Of The Moon, Greg Brown, Red House Records, 2002
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are “Smell Of Coffee”, the title track “Milk Of The Moon”, “Ashamed Of Our Love”, “Oh You”. As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
Smell of Coffee
Bouffant hairdo, ne'er-do-well
Warm the car up, perfume smell
Work is there when love is gone
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Pheasant clucking, ice cold dew
Backseat shotgun, frosty slough
Chevy coughing, let's move on
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Hey there, Benny, is this your home?
Railroad cinders, styrofoam
Train a-comin', where's Lost John?
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Blue blue window, factory
Big bad boss man can't find me
Boxes piled up, paycheck gone
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Woman works and man does too
Yellow paper, same old news
Forty years to cross the lawn
Smell of coffee, crack of dawn
Milk of the Moon
Morning is a siren, evening is a bust
Memories fade, pocketful of dust
I moan to you like a mourning dove
Mistakes are made along with love
On the day you opened up the door
I saw the future slip away, time is just a whore
If you can get any closer, oh please do
I can only dance when I dance with you
I'm drunk on moonmilk, I'm high up in the air
I know a woman she is silk there and there and there
With a kiss she wakes me up, she always leaves too soon
As she does she fills my cup with the milk of the moon
Open up the window, smell the rain
I kiss the pillow where your head has lain
Open up your wild and secret heart
And your flower, the tenderest part
I don't know when we'll meet again
Now will have to do 'til then
In a bed hot and wet like tears
We slept one night for years and years and years
I'm drunk on moonmilk, I'm high up in the air
I know a woman she is silk there and there and there
With a kiss she wakes me up, she always leaves too soon
As she does she fills my cup with the milk of the moon
Your gifts I'll cherish and I'll save
The look I see upon your face is the only thing I crave
When you're gone I'll try to get some rest
And dream you sleeping on my chest
I'll send you songs to carry you to sleep
Won't be so long we'll have this watch to keep
Loving you is the best I know of home
I'll be thinking of you hard hard hard as I open up my arms
I'm drunk on moonmilk, I'm high up in the air
Oh, woman, you are silk there and there and there
With a kiss you wake me up, you always leave too soon
As you go will you fill my cup with the milk of the moon?
Mud
Got a movie in my mind tonight
Grainy and jumpin', black and white
And I got my neck in close to yours
I can smell you and we're out of doors
You hold me close, I don't know
I hold you tight, I don't have to let go
In the dirt or somethin', somethin's wet
The sky is cloudy like the day we met
I can see through your eyes, things are big
Oh my heart is joy, things are big
Things are bigger, things are huge
Ah, the world comes in us like we want it to
I reach down slowly, down there someplace
Mmm, I get some mud, rub it on your face
And you do the same, and you kiss my blood
And here we are, ah, meeting in the mud
Ah, meeting in the mud
Yeah, meeting in the mud
Oh yeah, meeting in the mud
Yeah, yes, meeting in the mud.....
Ashamed of Our Love
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Our love had room for everyone
Our love had room for everyone
Our love had room for everyone
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Why wouldn't you stand up for us?
Why wouldn't you stand up for us?
Our love had room for everyone
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Lies kill any beautiful thing
Why wouldn't you stand up for us?
Our love had room for everyone
Why were you ashamed of our love?
Steady Love
She wants your passion, your caress
She wants your hands on her and a soulful kiss
But she's lookin' for more than just that, son
Gotta be somethin' under all the good times and fun
Oh steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
She might like flowers, might like a poem
Might like it better if you were home
And cooked with her and did a little dance
Where the kitchen is happy, love has a chance
Oh steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
She's seen the cool boys hangin' around
With their sad dark eyes they never settle down
They might've written books or made CDs for the shelves
But they mostly just think about themselves
She wants steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
When the kids are cryin' and the bills are due
And you wonder what you have gotten into
And you think the whole deal is not to be
Give her steady love, you'll find out how hot a woman can be
Steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
I've heard men say, "Well look at that
She's such a babe, he's kinda dull, a little fat"
He must know something about kind and fair
When she needs somebody, the man is there
He gives her steady love, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
Mmmm, steady love
When the chips are down
The kind she can be sure of
Oh steady love
(Repeat, repeat) I can't stop!
OBAMA- Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal from Afghanistan and Iraq!
Commentary
No need to go into heavy analysis here. New imperialist American Commander-in-Chief but same task for anti-warriors. Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of United States Troops From Afghanistan and Iraq!
No need to go into heavy analysis here. New imperialist American Commander-in-Chief but same task for anti-warriors. Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of United States Troops From Afghanistan and Iraq!
BUSH- Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal From Afghanistan and Iraq- A Parting Shot
Commentary
No need to go into heavy analysis here. Old imperialist American Commander-in-Chief and same old same task for anti-warriors for a couple more hours of this administration. Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of United States Troops From Afghanistan and Iraq!
No need to go into heavy analysis here. Old imperialist American Commander-in-Chief and same old same task for anti-warriors for a couple more hours of this administration. Immediate Unconditional Withdrawal of United States Troops From Afghanistan and Iraq!
Monday, January 19, 2009
*The Poet’s Game- The Music Of Folk’s Greg Brown- “the poet game”
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown performing "Jesus And Elvis"
CD Review
the poet game, Greg Brown , Red House Records, 1994
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here, although the whole album from start to finish is probably the highest quality that Greg attains in one album, are the lyrically rich title track “the poet game”, the seamy, steamy ‘ballingall hotel”, the nicely counterpoised (maybe) "jesus and elvis”, the elusiveness of “my new book”, and "driftless". As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
"The Poet Game"
Down by the river junior year
walking with my girl,
and we came upon a place
there in the tall grass where a couple
had been making love
and left the mark of their embrace.
I said to her, "Looks like they had some fun."
She said to me, "Let's do the same."
and still I taste her kisses
and her freckles in the sun
when I play the poet game.
A young man down in hill country
in the year of '22
went to see his future bride.
She lived in a rough old shack
that poverty blew through.
She invited him inside.
She'd been cooking, ashamed and feeling sad,
she could only offer him bread and her name -
Grandpa said that it was the best gift
a fella ever had
and he taught me the poet game.
I had a friend who drank too much
and played too much guitar -
and we sure got along.
Reel-to-reels rolled across
the country near and far
with letters poems and songs..
but these days he don't talk to me
and he won't tell me why.
I miss him every time i say his name.
I don't know what he's doing
or why our friendship died
while we played the poet game.
The fall rain was pounding down
on an old New Hampshire mill
and the river wild and high.
I was talking to her while leaves blew down
like a sudden chill -
there was wildness in her eyes.
We made love like we'd been waiting
all of our lives for this -
Strangers know no shame -
But she had to leave at dawn
and with a sticky farewell kiss
left me to play the poet game.
I watched my country turn into
a coast-to-coast strip mall
and I cried out in a song:
if we could do all that in thirty years,
then please tell me you all -
why does good change take so long?
Why does the color of your skin
or who you choose to love
still lead to such anger and pain?
And why do I think it's any help
for me to still dream of
playing the poet game?
Sirens wail above the fields -
another soul gone down -
another Sun about to rise.
I've lost track of my mistakes,
like birds they fly around
and darken half of my skies.
To all of those I've hurt -
I pray you'll forgive me.
I to you will freely do the same.
so many things I didn't see,
with my eyes turned inside,
playing the poet game.
I walk out at night to take a leak
underneath the stars -
oh yeah that's the life for me.
There's Orion and the Pleiades
and I guess that must be Mars -
all as clear as we long to be.
I've sung what I was given -
some was bad and some was good.
I never did know from where it came
and if I had it all to do again
I am not sure I would
play the poet game.
"Lately"
We closed that bar and we closed that town.
The sun looked different coming up than it did going
down.
That was long ago - do you still love me or do you
hate me?
I wouldn't know - I haven't seen you lately.
We could have died dancing in each other's arms
or driving home close and warm out through the
little farms,
or in the bed, holding on and shaking.
But we did not - and where you been lately?
I can see your eyes, so dark and knowing,
and I wonder where that distant train is going.
If I found you, would you smile - would you take me?
I only know I miss you so much lately.
CD Review
the poet game, Greg Brown , Red House Records, 1994
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here, although the whole album from start to finish is probably the highest quality that Greg attains in one album, are the lyrically rich title track “the poet game”, the seamy, steamy ‘ballingall hotel”, the nicely counterpoised (maybe) "jesus and elvis”, the elusiveness of “my new book”, and "driftless". As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
"The Poet Game"
Down by the river junior year
walking with my girl,
and we came upon a place
there in the tall grass where a couple
had been making love
and left the mark of their embrace.
I said to her, "Looks like they had some fun."
She said to me, "Let's do the same."
and still I taste her kisses
and her freckles in the sun
when I play the poet game.
A young man down in hill country
in the year of '22
went to see his future bride.
She lived in a rough old shack
that poverty blew through.
She invited him inside.
She'd been cooking, ashamed and feeling sad,
she could only offer him bread and her name -
Grandpa said that it was the best gift
a fella ever had
and he taught me the poet game.
I had a friend who drank too much
and played too much guitar -
and we sure got along.
Reel-to-reels rolled across
the country near and far
with letters poems and songs..
but these days he don't talk to me
and he won't tell me why.
I miss him every time i say his name.
I don't know what he's doing
or why our friendship died
while we played the poet game.
The fall rain was pounding down
on an old New Hampshire mill
and the river wild and high.
I was talking to her while leaves blew down
like a sudden chill -
there was wildness in her eyes.
We made love like we'd been waiting
all of our lives for this -
Strangers know no shame -
But she had to leave at dawn
and with a sticky farewell kiss
left me to play the poet game.
I watched my country turn into
a coast-to-coast strip mall
and I cried out in a song:
if we could do all that in thirty years,
then please tell me you all -
why does good change take so long?
Why does the color of your skin
or who you choose to love
still lead to such anger and pain?
And why do I think it's any help
for me to still dream of
playing the poet game?
Sirens wail above the fields -
another soul gone down -
another Sun about to rise.
I've lost track of my mistakes,
like birds they fly around
and darken half of my skies.
To all of those I've hurt -
I pray you'll forgive me.
I to you will freely do the same.
so many things I didn't see,
with my eyes turned inside,
playing the poet game.
I walk out at night to take a leak
underneath the stars -
oh yeah that's the life for me.
There's Orion and the Pleiades
and I guess that must be Mars -
all as clear as we long to be.
I've sung what I was given -
some was bad and some was good.
I never did know from where it came
and if I had it all to do again
I am not sure I would
play the poet game.
"Lately"
We closed that bar and we closed that town.
The sun looked different coming up than it did going
down.
That was long ago - do you still love me or do you
hate me?
I wouldn't know - I haven't seen you lately.
We could have died dancing in each other's arms
or driving home close and warm out through the
little farms,
or in the bed, holding on and shaking.
But we did not - and where you been lately?
I can see your eyes, so dark and knowing,
and I wonder where that distant train is going.
If I found you, would you smile - would you take me?
I only know I miss you so much lately.
*The Poet’s Game- The Music Of Folk’s Greg Brown- “44 &66”
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown performing "Canned Goods".
CD Review
44&66, Greg Brown , Red House Records, 1984
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are the ironically evocative “Bozo’s In Love Again”, the heartland small town tribute “Early”, and the prophetic “Beatniks Gonna Rise Again”. As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
"Jesus & Elvis"
Jesus had some water, said "Wine'd be better yet".
Elvis picked up a guitar and made all women wet.
Elvis he died young - Jesus he died younger.
Elvis died of too much - Jesus died of hunger.
Jesus sang down through the ages: "Do like you'd have'em
do you".
Elvis rocked the universe with be-bop-a-lu-la -
Now here they are on black velvet, in a parking lot in
Missouri -
rocking my soul with rock'n'roll, soulful harmony.
Jesus went back to heaven to be the King of Kings,
but I hear the King of Rock'n'Roll is still restlessly
roaming.
Go on home to Jesus, El - he's waiting there you'll find.
You two can jam on old gospel songs - them are the best
kind.
"Ballingall Hotel"
I said I'd never come to this ugly old hotel again.
Baby, here I am.
I said I'd never knock again on # 22
Baby, how are you?
Some nights something grabs you and
you don't even know what it is.
Give me a kiss.
Leave that black slip on and dance just like you
did last time.
I'm so glad your plans for leaving fell through -
just like mine.
Ain't no air conditioning, the ceiling fan don't work
too well.
Guess we'll have to sweat it out again at the
Ballingal Hotel.
One night I knocked on the wrong door
and myself as an old man answered - so drunk
and so poor.
I said I'd never come again to this ugly old hotel -
but what the hell.
CD Review
44&66, Greg Brown , Red House Records, 1984
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are the ironically evocative “Bozo’s In Love Again”, the heartland small town tribute “Early”, and the prophetic “Beatniks Gonna Rise Again”. As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
"Jesus & Elvis"
Jesus had some water, said "Wine'd be better yet".
Elvis picked up a guitar and made all women wet.
Elvis he died young - Jesus he died younger.
Elvis died of too much - Jesus died of hunger.
Jesus sang down through the ages: "Do like you'd have'em
do you".
Elvis rocked the universe with be-bop-a-lu-la -
Now here they are on black velvet, in a parking lot in
Missouri -
rocking my soul with rock'n'roll, soulful harmony.
Jesus went back to heaven to be the King of Kings,
but I hear the King of Rock'n'Roll is still restlessly
roaming.
Go on home to Jesus, El - he's waiting there you'll find.
You two can jam on old gospel songs - them are the best
kind.
"Ballingall Hotel"
I said I'd never come to this ugly old hotel again.
Baby, here I am.
I said I'd never knock again on # 22
Baby, how are you?
Some nights something grabs you and
you don't even know what it is.
Give me a kiss.
Leave that black slip on and dance just like you
did last time.
I'm so glad your plans for leaving fell through -
just like mine.
Ain't no air conditioning, the ceiling fan don't work
too well.
Guess we'll have to sweat it out again at the
Ballingal Hotel.
One night I knocked on the wrong door
and myself as an old man answered - so drunk
and so poor.
I said I'd never come again to this ugly old hotel -
but what the hell.
*The Poet’s Game- The Music Of Folk’s Greg Brown- “Slant 6 Mind”
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown performing "Driftless"
CD Review
Slant 6 Mind, Greg Brown with Bo Ramsey, Red House Records, 1997
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are the song for his father, the evocative “Billy From The Hills”, Dusty Woods”, and “Hurt So Nice”. As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
"Brand New '64 Dodge"
Money comes out of Dad's billfold.
Hankies come out of Mom's purse.
The engine hardly makes a sound
even when you put it in reverse.
It's got a push-button transmission,hardtop convertible, 4-door.
It's November of '63
and the brand new Dodge is a '64.
And we're rolling slow down Main Street -
the asphalt and gravel crunch.
Church is finally over
and we're going to have our Sunday lunch.
And then I will play football
with my buddies down in park.
Later I'll dream about my girlfriend
as I lie alone in the dark.
She's got short red hair and blue eyes
and her swimsuit's also blue
and her little brother is retarded,
but Jesus loves him, too.
And Jesus loves our president,
even though he is a Catholic.
There's a lot for a boy to think about
as he walks along the railroad tracks.
And my sister won't get carsick
'cause we're going only half a mile
and the car still has that new car smell
and dad looks like he might smile
and the world is big and full of Autumn
and I'm hungry as can be
and we're in our brand new '64 Dodge
November of '63
"Boomtown"
Here come the artists with their intense faces,
with their need for money and quiet spaces.
They leave New York, they leave L.A..
Here they are - who knows how long they'll stay -
[chorus:]
It's a Boomtown
got another Boomtown
and it'll boom
just as long as boom has room.
Here come the tourists with their blank stares,
with their fanny packs - they are penny millionaires.
Something interesting happened here long time ago.
Now where people used to live their lives the restless
come and go.
[repeat chorus]
Nice to meet you, nice to see you
in a sheepskin coat made in Korea.
Welcome to the new age, the new century.
Welcome to a town with no real reason to be.
[repeat chorus]
The rich build sensitive houses and pass their staff around.
For the rest of us, it's trailers on the outskirts of town.
We carry them their coffee, wash their shiny cars,
hear all about how lucky we are
to be living in a ...
[repeat chorus]
The guy from California moves in and relaxes.
The natives have to move - they cannot pay the taxes.
Santa Fe has had it. Sedona has, too.
Maybe you'll be lucky - maybe your town will be the new...
[repeat chorus]
CD Review
Slant 6 Mind, Greg Brown with Bo Ramsey, Red House Records, 1997
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are the song for his father, the evocative “Billy From The Hills”, Dusty Woods”, and “Hurt So Nice”. As always Greg is on top when singing about the seamy side of life, love and the mysteries of human existence out in the heartland.
"Brand New '64 Dodge"
Money comes out of Dad's billfold.
Hankies come out of Mom's purse.
The engine hardly makes a sound
even when you put it in reverse.
It's got a push-button transmission,hardtop convertible, 4-door.
It's November of '63
and the brand new Dodge is a '64.
And we're rolling slow down Main Street -
the asphalt and gravel crunch.
Church is finally over
and we're going to have our Sunday lunch.
And then I will play football
with my buddies down in park.
Later I'll dream about my girlfriend
as I lie alone in the dark.
She's got short red hair and blue eyes
and her swimsuit's also blue
and her little brother is retarded,
but Jesus loves him, too.
And Jesus loves our president,
even though he is a Catholic.
There's a lot for a boy to think about
as he walks along the railroad tracks.
And my sister won't get carsick
'cause we're going only half a mile
and the car still has that new car smell
and dad looks like he might smile
and the world is big and full of Autumn
and I'm hungry as can be
and we're in our brand new '64 Dodge
November of '63
"Boomtown"
Here come the artists with their intense faces,
with their need for money and quiet spaces.
They leave New York, they leave L.A..
Here they are - who knows how long they'll stay -
[chorus:]
It's a Boomtown
got another Boomtown
and it'll boom
just as long as boom has room.
Here come the tourists with their blank stares,
with their fanny packs - they are penny millionaires.
Something interesting happened here long time ago.
Now where people used to live their lives the restless
come and go.
[repeat chorus]
Nice to meet you, nice to see you
in a sheepskin coat made in Korea.
Welcome to the new age, the new century.
Welcome to a town with no real reason to be.
[repeat chorus]
The rich build sensitive houses and pass their staff around.
For the rest of us, it's trailers on the outskirts of town.
We carry them their coffee, wash their shiny cars,
hear all about how lucky we are
to be living in a ...
[repeat chorus]
The guy from California moves in and relaxes.
The natives have to move - they cannot pay the taxes.
Santa Fe has had it. Sedona has, too.
Maybe you'll be lucky - maybe your town will be the new...
[repeat chorus]
*The Poet’s Game- The Music Of Folk’s Greg Brown- “Solid Heart”
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown performing "our Little Town"
Solid Heart: The In-Harmony Benefit Concert, Greg Brown with Dave Carter and Tracey Grammer, In-Harmony, 1999
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding in this benefit concert recording for In-Harmony, a foster care program, are the title track, “Solid Heart”, the old stand-by “Further In”, the comic, nicely paced, “I Must Be In Oregon”, and a great “rockin’ cover of the old country bluesman Mississippi Fred McDowell’s tune. “You’ve Got To Move” (also covered by The Rolling Stones). The late Dave Carter and Tracey Grammer are nice additions on a couple of tracks, especially the old madman Carter’s “Don’t Tread On Me”. They are worthy of separate review of their own work.
Cheapest Kind
We travelled Kansas and Missouri spreading the good news
A preachers family in our pressed clothes and worn out polished shoes
Momma fixed us soup beans and served them up by candlelight
She tucked us in at night
Oh she worried through many a sleepless night
Dad and me would stop by the store when the day was done
Standin at the counter he said "I forgot to get the peaches, son."
"What kind should I get?" I said to him there where he stood in line
And he answered just like I knew he would "Go and get the cheapest kind"
[chorus:]
But the love, the love, the love
It was not the cheapest kind
It was rich as, rich as, rich as ,rich as, rich as
Any you could ever find
I see the ghost of my grandfather from time to time
In some big city amongst the people all dressed so fine
He usually has a paper bag clutched real tight
His work clothes are dirty
He don't look at nobody in the eye
Oh he was little, he was wirey, and he was lots of fun
He was rocky as Ozark dirt that he come from
And they was raisin seven children on a little farm
In not the best of times
The few things that they got from the store
Was always just the cheapest kind
[repeat chorus]
Fancy houses with wealthy poeple I don't understand
I always wish I could live holdin on to my grandpa's hand
So he could lead me down that gravel road somewhere
To that little house where there's just enough supper
For whosever there
My people's hands and faces they are so dear to me
All I have to do is close my eyes and I see `em all so near to me
I have to cry I have to laugh
When I think of all the things that have drawn those lines
So many years of makin do with the cheapest kind
[repeat chorus twice]
Our Little Town
Now the railroad came generations ago
And the town grew up as the crops did grow
The crops grew well and the town did too
They say it's dyin now and there ain't a thing we can do
I don't have to read the news
Or hear it on the radio
I see it in the faces of everyone I know
The cost goes up
What we made comes down
What's gonna happen to our little town
The summer is full of thunder
The kids run and play
Momma got a new wrinkle
Poppa ain't got much to say
Rust grows along the railroad track
The young folks leave
They don't come back
And I don't have to read the news
Or hear it on the radio
I see it in the faces of everyone I know
The boards go up
The signs come down
What's gonna happen to our little town
Tom lost his farm
And we lost Tom
He left in the night
I don't know where he's gone
What he'd lost
He just couldn't face
What we're losin' can't be replaced
I don't have to read the news
Or hear it on the radio
I see it in the faces of everyone I know
The reason we're here
Is the farms around
So what's gonna happen to our little town
We've seen hard times
Many times before
Maybe this whole thing is just one more
It never was perfect
Maybe no one's to blame
To see it die like this
It's a god damned shame
And I don't have to read the news
Or hear it on the radio
I see it in the faces of everyone I know
The sun comes up
The sun goes down
But what's gonna happen to our little town
Solid Heart: The In-Harmony Benefit Concert, Greg Brown with Dave Carter and Tracey Grammer, In-Harmony, 1999
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding in this benefit concert recording for In-Harmony, a foster care program, are the title track, “Solid Heart”, the old stand-by “Further In”, the comic, nicely paced, “I Must Be In Oregon”, and a great “rockin’ cover of the old country bluesman Mississippi Fred McDowell’s tune. “You’ve Got To Move” (also covered by The Rolling Stones). The late Dave Carter and Tracey Grammer are nice additions on a couple of tracks, especially the old madman Carter’s “Don’t Tread On Me”. They are worthy of separate review of their own work.
Cheapest Kind
We travelled Kansas and Missouri spreading the good news
A preachers family in our pressed clothes and worn out polished shoes
Momma fixed us soup beans and served them up by candlelight
She tucked us in at night
Oh she worried through many a sleepless night
Dad and me would stop by the store when the day was done
Standin at the counter he said "I forgot to get the peaches, son."
"What kind should I get?" I said to him there where he stood in line
And he answered just like I knew he would "Go and get the cheapest kind"
[chorus:]
But the love, the love, the love
It was not the cheapest kind
It was rich as, rich as, rich as ,rich as, rich as
Any you could ever find
I see the ghost of my grandfather from time to time
In some big city amongst the people all dressed so fine
He usually has a paper bag clutched real tight
His work clothes are dirty
He don't look at nobody in the eye
Oh he was little, he was wirey, and he was lots of fun
He was rocky as Ozark dirt that he come from
And they was raisin seven children on a little farm
In not the best of times
The few things that they got from the store
Was always just the cheapest kind
[repeat chorus]
Fancy houses with wealthy poeple I don't understand
I always wish I could live holdin on to my grandpa's hand
So he could lead me down that gravel road somewhere
To that little house where there's just enough supper
For whosever there
My people's hands and faces they are so dear to me
All I have to do is close my eyes and I see `em all so near to me
I have to cry I have to laugh
When I think of all the things that have drawn those lines
So many years of makin do with the cheapest kind
[repeat chorus twice]
Our Little Town
Now the railroad came generations ago
And the town grew up as the crops did grow
The crops grew well and the town did too
They say it's dyin now and there ain't a thing we can do
I don't have to read the news
Or hear it on the radio
I see it in the faces of everyone I know
The cost goes up
What we made comes down
What's gonna happen to our little town
The summer is full of thunder
The kids run and play
Momma got a new wrinkle
Poppa ain't got much to say
Rust grows along the railroad track
The young folks leave
They don't come back
And I don't have to read the news
Or hear it on the radio
I see it in the faces of everyone I know
The boards go up
The signs come down
What's gonna happen to our little town
Tom lost his farm
And we lost Tom
He left in the night
I don't know where he's gone
What he'd lost
He just couldn't face
What we're losin' can't be replaced
I don't have to read the news
Or hear it on the radio
I see it in the faces of everyone I know
The reason we're here
Is the farms around
So what's gonna happen to our little town
We've seen hard times
Many times before
Maybe this whole thing is just one more
It never was perfect
Maybe no one's to blame
To see it die like this
It's a god damned shame
And I don't have to read the news
Or hear it on the radio
I see it in the faces of everyone I know
The sun comes up
The sun goes down
But what's gonna happen to our little town
*The Poet’s Game- The Music Of Folk’s Greg Brown- “One More Goodnight Kiss”
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown performing "Lately"
CD Review
One More Goodnight Kiss, Greg Brown, Red House Records, 1988
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are the songs of childhood remembrance like “Say A Little Prayer” and “Walking Down To Casey”. The struggle just to survive that I can, although a mere city boy, relate to in “Cheapest Kind”. The ode to everyone’s grandmother, city or country, farm or tenement, in “Canned Goods”. Can’t you just smell Grandma’s cooking as you listen , if only as an alternative to the routine at home. As a bonus the eerily beautiful lyrical poetry in song of “I Wish I Were A Painter” makes me wish that I could put some lyrics like those together, once.
I Wish I Was a Painter
lyrics by Ella Mae Brown
In these hills is every color,
every one but one or two.
If I knew how to paint pictures,
just think of what I could do.
[chorus:]
I wish I was a painter,
and could mix red, green and blue.
Oh, I wish I was a painter--
I'd paint a picture for you.
Blue sky is such a companion,
if you had some to hang on your wall,
then could you ever be sorry,
when night came nightly at all?
[repeat chorus]
And the seasons turning colors,
if I could paint Summer for you,
then in the deep of the Winter,
you could have some Summer too.
[repeat chorus]
Here in the hills of the Ozarks,
I've seen almost every hue.
And I just wish I could catch them,
I'd turn your wall into a view.
[repeat chorus]
Canned Goods
Well let the wild winter wind bellow and blow
I'm as warm as a July tomato
[chorus:]
There's peaches on the shelf, potatoes in the bin
Supper ready, everybody come on in
Taste a little of the summer
Taste a little of the summer
Taste a little of the summer
Grandma put it all in jars
Well there's a root cellar, fruit cellar down below
Watch your head now, and down we go
[repeat chorus]
Well maybe you are weary and you don't give a damn
I bet you never tasted her blackberry jam
[repeat chorus]
Oh she got magic in her, you know what I mean
She puts the sun and rain in with her beans
[repeat chorus]
What with the snow and the economy and everything
I think I'll just stay down here and eat until spring
[repeat chorus]
When I go down to see Grandma, I gain a lot a weight
With her dear hands she gives me plate after plate
She cans the pickles, sweet and dill
And the songs of the whip-or-will and the morning dew and the evening moon
I really gotta go down and see her soon
Cause the canned goods that I buy at the store
Ain't got the summer in em anymore
You bet Grandma as sure as you're born I'll take some more potatoes and
a thunder storm
[repeat chorus]
CD Review
One More Goodnight Kiss, Greg Brown, Red House Records, 1988
Revised December 19, 2008
The first two paragraphs have been used in other reviews of folk musician/singer/songwriter Greg Brown’s work.
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are the songs of childhood remembrance like “Say A Little Prayer” and “Walking Down To Casey”. The struggle just to survive that I can, although a mere city boy, relate to in “Cheapest Kind”. The ode to everyone’s grandmother, city or country, farm or tenement, in “Canned Goods”. Can’t you just smell Grandma’s cooking as you listen , if only as an alternative to the routine at home. As a bonus the eerily beautiful lyrical poetry in song of “I Wish I Were A Painter” makes me wish that I could put some lyrics like those together, once.
I Wish I Was a Painter
lyrics by Ella Mae Brown
In these hills is every color,
every one but one or two.
If I knew how to paint pictures,
just think of what I could do.
[chorus:]
I wish I was a painter,
and could mix red, green and blue.
Oh, I wish I was a painter--
I'd paint a picture for you.
Blue sky is such a companion,
if you had some to hang on your wall,
then could you ever be sorry,
when night came nightly at all?
[repeat chorus]
And the seasons turning colors,
if I could paint Summer for you,
then in the deep of the Winter,
you could have some Summer too.
[repeat chorus]
Here in the hills of the Ozarks,
I've seen almost every hue.
And I just wish I could catch them,
I'd turn your wall into a view.
[repeat chorus]
Canned Goods
Well let the wild winter wind bellow and blow
I'm as warm as a July tomato
[chorus:]
There's peaches on the shelf, potatoes in the bin
Supper ready, everybody come on in
Taste a little of the summer
Taste a little of the summer
Taste a little of the summer
Grandma put it all in jars
Well there's a root cellar, fruit cellar down below
Watch your head now, and down we go
[repeat chorus]
Well maybe you are weary and you don't give a damn
I bet you never tasted her blackberry jam
[repeat chorus]
Oh she got magic in her, you know what I mean
She puts the sun and rain in with her beans
[repeat chorus]
What with the snow and the economy and everything
I think I'll just stay down here and eat until spring
[repeat chorus]
When I go down to see Grandma, I gain a lot a weight
With her dear hands she gives me plate after plate
She cans the pickles, sweet and dill
And the songs of the whip-or-will and the morning dew and the evening moon
I really gotta go down and see her soon
Cause the canned goods that I buy at the store
Ain't got the summer in em anymore
You bet Grandma as sure as you're born I'll take some more potatoes and
a thunder storm
[repeat chorus]
*The Poet's Game- The Early Work Of Folk's Greg Brown
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of song writer Richard Thompson performing his song "1952 Vincent Black Lightning". Sorry I could not find a cover done by Greg Brown on this song.
CD Review
Greg Brown-The Live One, Greg Brown, Red House Records, 1991
Revised December 19, 2008
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are “Billy From The Hills” a tribute to his father, “Boomtown” a quasi-political song about turning the American Mountain West into the same kind of upscale tourist trap/strip mall as we find on the coasts and the inevitable paean to love’s twists and turns in “You Drive Me Crazy”. I want to pay special attention to "1952 Vincent Black Lightning" the semi-tragic story of outlaw motorcycle love. I would argue that this is one of the great modern love songs. If you grew up in the 1950's and early 1960's you are familiar with this theme in the pop music genre. Christ, you could not get away from the theme of a dying young lover who passed away in every conceivable manner, although car wrecks seemed to have been the most popular way.
Here Brown turns this whole concept around in his tribute to the bike and to the outlaw who ultimately is redeemed by giving the keys to his cherished bike to his Red Molly. If that is not modern love then nothing is. All to his steady guitar beat that gives one the feeling of a motorcycle going through its gears. I have since found out, and correct me if I am wrong, that Greg did not write this song, although I will bet many a dollar that he wishes that he had. (Hats off to Richard Thompson for his efforts). Moreover, this is exactly his kind of song and his performance makes it his own. Listen on.
ARTIST: Richard Thompson
TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
Lyrics and Chords
Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike
A girl could feel special on any such like
Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme
And he pulled her on behind
And down to Box Hill they did ride
/ A - - - D - / - - - - A - / : / E - D A /
/ E - D A - / Bm - D - / - - - - A - - - /
Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man
I've fought with the law since I was seventeen
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae
For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside
Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do
They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52
He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
He said I've got no further use for these
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride
CD Review
Greg Brown-The Live One, Greg Brown, Red House Records, 1991
Revised December 19, 2008
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
Outstanding here are “Billy From The Hills” a tribute to his father, “Boomtown” a quasi-political song about turning the American Mountain West into the same kind of upscale tourist trap/strip mall as we find on the coasts and the inevitable paean to love’s twists and turns in “You Drive Me Crazy”. I want to pay special attention to "1952 Vincent Black Lightning" the semi-tragic story of outlaw motorcycle love. I would argue that this is one of the great modern love songs. If you grew up in the 1950's and early 1960's you are familiar with this theme in the pop music genre. Christ, you could not get away from the theme of a dying young lover who passed away in every conceivable manner, although car wrecks seemed to have been the most popular way.
Here Brown turns this whole concept around in his tribute to the bike and to the outlaw who ultimately is redeemed by giving the keys to his cherished bike to his Red Molly. If that is not modern love then nothing is. All to his steady guitar beat that gives one the feeling of a motorcycle going through its gears. I have since found out, and correct me if I am wrong, that Greg did not write this song, although I will bet many a dollar that he wishes that he had. (Hats off to Richard Thompson for his efforts). Moreover, this is exactly his kind of song and his performance makes it his own. Listen on.
ARTIST: Richard Thompson
TITLE: 1952 Vincent Black Lightning
Lyrics and Chords
Said Red Molly to James that's a fine motorbike
A girl could feel special on any such like
Said James to Red Molly, well my hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme
And he pulled her on behind
And down to Box Hill they did ride
/ A - - - D - / - - - - A - / : / E - D A /
/ E - D A - / Bm - D - / - - - - A - - - /
Said James to Red Molly, here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man
I've fought with the law since I was seventeen
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Come down, come down, Red Molly, called Sergeant McRae
For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside
Oh, come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
And said I'll give you my Vincent to ride
Says James, in my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeveses won't do
They don't have a soul like a Vincent 52
He reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
He said I've got no further use for these
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride
"I Want My Country Back"- The Music Of Greg Brown
Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Greg Brown performing "I Want My Country Back".
CD REVIEW
Greg Brown: In The Hills Of California- Live At The Kate Wolf Music Festival 1997-2003, Greg Brown, Red House Records, 2004
The last time that the name Greg Brown, singer/songwriter and free-wheeling homespun philosopher appeared in this space was just recently as I found myself publicly ‘flirting’, via cyberspace of course, with his wife the also accomplished singer/songwriter Iris Dement, my Arkie angel (See my review of her “Infamous Angel” CD). It is all Greg’s fault, in any case. I was ‘introduced’ to Iris on his tribute album “Driftless” where she did a cover of “Jimmie Rodgers Going Home” (complete with yodel at the end). So to be absolutely aboveboard and fair I find it necessary to review some of his work
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
In this CD collection we are treated to another look at many of those above-mentioned topics via Greg’s performances over several years (1997-2004) at the annual Kate Wolf Festival held in California since 1996. Thus, if one is unfamiliar with Greg Brown, one can get a full range of his work, some of his best work, as he pays honor by his performances to Kate Wolf, one of the post-1960’s most influential folk performers, whose work is still widely covered by contemporary folk singers. Moreover, the group of musicians that back him up on many of the tracks is superior, especially guitarist Nina Gerber.
So what is good here? “Wash My Eyes” and “Two Little Feet” work on Disc One, as does the controlled anger of “I Want My Country Back” and a rocking “I Shall Not Be Moved” to highlight his political perspective. On Disc Two the “Poet’s Game” is always a winner (especially that line about the strip malls and the one about that one night stand lady friend up in New Hampshire) as is “Where Is Maria?” and “Your Town Now”.
So much for the music review. Here is the real reason I wrote this frantic review though. I looked at the pictures on the liner notes and noticed that old Greg has been doing some weight lifting or something. He looks like he could play tight end for the Chicago Bears. Hey, Greg male folk singers are suppose to be scrawny and looking malnourished not healthy and ready to do bodily injury if you mess with their women. All this is by way of saying - all that stuff about ‘flirting’ with Iris in any way, shape or form was just fooling around. Okay?
"Greg Brown- Two Little Feet lyrics"
two little feet to get me 'cross the mountain
two little feet to carry me away into the woods
two little feet, big mountain, and a
cloud comin' down cloud comin' down cloud comin' down
I hear the voice of the ancient ones
chanting magic words from a different time
well there is no time there is only this rain
there is no time, that's why I missed my plane
John Muir walked away into the mountains
in his old overcoat a crust of bread in his pocket
we have no knowledge and so we have stuff and
stuff with no knowledge is never enough to get you there
it just won't get you there
a culture exploded into knickknacks and memories
Eagle and Bear trinkets I don't think it's good
old man what am I trying to say it's a
it's a messed up world but I love it anyway
two little feet to get me 'cross the city
my little hand to knock upon your door
my little thing for your little thing
and a big love to lift us up once more to the mountain
lift us up
tumble us like scree let us holler out our freedom like a
like a wolf across a valley like a kid lost in a game
no time no name gonna miss that plane again
and I'm gonna stay here with you baby and kiss you to a good dream
I'm goin' kiss you
kiss you like you like it
I got two little feet to get me across the mountain
two little feet to carry me away into the woods
two little feet big mountain and a
cloud comin' down cloud comin' down cloud comin' down
CD REVIEW
Greg Brown: In The Hills Of California- Live At The Kate Wolf Music Festival 1997-2003, Greg Brown, Red House Records, 2004
The last time that the name Greg Brown, singer/songwriter and free-wheeling homespun philosopher appeared in this space was just recently as I found myself publicly ‘flirting’, via cyberspace of course, with his wife the also accomplished singer/songwriter Iris Dement, my Arkie angel (See my review of her “Infamous Angel” CD). It is all Greg’s fault, in any case. I was ‘introduced’ to Iris on his tribute album “Driftless” where she did a cover of “Jimmie Rodgers Going Home” (complete with yodel at the end). So to be absolutely aboveboard and fair I find it necessary to review some of his work
Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown-The Live One ” album reviewed elsewhere in this space I had not really paid attention to since the days of my early youth when I listened intently to Woody Guthrie whose songs were seemingly forged from the very heart of Americana. As a child of the urban folk revival of the 1960’s I got caught up in listening to the more political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. As a poet/singer/songwriter Greg has come out of the heartland of America, like Woody, in a fury to write and sing his tales of love, remembrance, tragedy, desperation and, on occasion, just pure whimsy. He is thus in very good company, and belongs there.
His songs evoke, under more modern conditions to be sure, the days gone by when the community spirit of small town life meant something. A strong bass voice grainy with the trials and tribulations of life lend authenticity to his words, as does strong guitar playing when necessary. Needless to say the variety of topics covered in his songs speak for themselves from Grandma's food cellars to vanishing Iowa family farms to sweaty nights of lovemaking entwined with the up and down battles of love and, of course, the ubiquitous bouts of fishing that gain more than a nod in his albums.
In this CD collection we are treated to another look at many of those above-mentioned topics via Greg’s performances over several years (1997-2004) at the annual Kate Wolf Festival held in California since 1996. Thus, if one is unfamiliar with Greg Brown, one can get a full range of his work, some of his best work, as he pays honor by his performances to Kate Wolf, one of the post-1960’s most influential folk performers, whose work is still widely covered by contemporary folk singers. Moreover, the group of musicians that back him up on many of the tracks is superior, especially guitarist Nina Gerber.
So what is good here? “Wash My Eyes” and “Two Little Feet” work on Disc One, as does the controlled anger of “I Want My Country Back” and a rocking “I Shall Not Be Moved” to highlight his political perspective. On Disc Two the “Poet’s Game” is always a winner (especially that line about the strip malls and the one about that one night stand lady friend up in New Hampshire) as is “Where Is Maria?” and “Your Town Now”.
So much for the music review. Here is the real reason I wrote this frantic review though. I looked at the pictures on the liner notes and noticed that old Greg has been doing some weight lifting or something. He looks like he could play tight end for the Chicago Bears. Hey, Greg male folk singers are suppose to be scrawny and looking malnourished not healthy and ready to do bodily injury if you mess with their women. All this is by way of saying - all that stuff about ‘flirting’ with Iris in any way, shape or form was just fooling around. Okay?
"Greg Brown- Two Little Feet lyrics"
two little feet to get me 'cross the mountain
two little feet to carry me away into the woods
two little feet, big mountain, and a
cloud comin' down cloud comin' down cloud comin' down
I hear the voice of the ancient ones
chanting magic words from a different time
well there is no time there is only this rain
there is no time, that's why I missed my plane
John Muir walked away into the mountains
in his old overcoat a crust of bread in his pocket
we have no knowledge and so we have stuff and
stuff with no knowledge is never enough to get you there
it just won't get you there
a culture exploded into knickknacks and memories
Eagle and Bear trinkets I don't think it's good
old man what am I trying to say it's a
it's a messed up world but I love it anyway
two little feet to get me 'cross the city
my little hand to knock upon your door
my little thing for your little thing
and a big love to lift us up once more to the mountain
lift us up
tumble us like scree let us holler out our freedom like a
like a wolf across a valley like a kid lost in a game
no time no name gonna miss that plane again
and I'm gonna stay here with you baby and kiss you to a good dream
I'm goin' kiss you
kiss you like you like it
I got two little feet to get me across the mountain
two little feet to carry me away into the woods
two little feet big mountain and a
cloud comin' down cloud comin' down cloud comin' down
Sunday, January 18, 2009
A Modern Day Robin Hood Legend- Pretty Boy Floyd
BOOK REVIEW
Pretty Boy Floyd, Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, Simon and Schuster, 1995
Yes, I am on a roll in reviewing Larry McMurtry inspired works (this one is co-written with his fellow screenplay writer Diana Ossana), although the subject of this presentation, the tale of Pretty Boy Floyd the Oklahoma dust bowl outlaw from the Depression-era 1930’s, has always had a certain personal appeal unlike some previously reviewed McMurtry anti-heroes. The name Pretty Boy Floyd is well known to me from my youth listening to Oklahoma- born Woody Guthrie on a folk music program that I tuned into on the radio in the early 1960’s. The tale that Woody told played into (and still plays into) my attraction toward Robin Hood-type figures (whether truly so or not) as part of the American struggle against the old time capitalist bosses and their bankers. Take this line – “Some will rob you with a six-gun, And some with a fountain pen”. Sound familiar today?
Of course the reality, as the plot in this book makes abundantly clear, is that these so-called heroic figures tend to either have feet of clay or have been glorified through sheer "trade-puffing” publicity agents, voluntary or otherwise. Nor is Pretty Boy alone in that category. On a scholarly level the late British Marxist historian Eric Hobsbawn spend the early part of his professional career investigating these types in his seminal work, "Primitive Rebels" and other sociological monograms on the subject of social bandits. But enough of the scholarly here because what our two authors have attempted to do here is to take a little away from that heroic notion and tell the tale as it more probably happened- including the boredom and monotony of everyday life even for well-known outlaws.
Pretty Boy’s tale is standard 1930’s stuff. Nothing doing at home except hard words, hard work, no pay and no adventure on the old homestead. That’s 1930’s Oklahoma in a nutshell. So off to the big city to learn a trade. The trade being robbing banks. Every profession has its rules and etiquette and as the authors tell this tale we are treated to some insights into those customs. But mainly it is set up the job, avoid getting shot and get away fast. If not, then jail, the hangman or shot down in some dark alley. Of course, this would not be a McMurtry-inspired novel if there was not a ton of sex, longings for sex or exasperations with sex. That, I might add, is true for those of us who are not social bandits as well. This is a decent read from a period that kind of marked off the Old West from the new-Tommy guns and fast cars did not figure in those Old West tales, right?
So that is the story line. I have added below, for comparison purposes, the lyrics from Woody Guthrie’s song "Pretty Boy Floyd". And here I will get political. Our Robin Hood figures express that certain longing to escape from the tyrannies of the day. All well and good, however, a close look at the social dynamics of even the Pretty Boy Floyd tale tells us that this is not the way to individual to speak nothing of societal justice. That is food for thought.
********
He [Woody Guthrie] also wrote a series of ballads about outlaws, celebrating them as the populist heroes they'd been back in Oklahoma, as poor people who preyed on the rich. He wrote about the Dalton gang,... and about the brazen woman outlaw Belle Starr. But the most famous of his outlaw ballads, and one of his finest pieces of work, was "The Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd," which he wrote in March of 1939.
Joe Klein, Woody Guthrie: A Life, London, 1981, p. 123
Lyrics as recorded by Woody Guthrie, RCA Studios, Camden, NJ, 26 Apr 1940, released on "Dust Bowl Ballads," transcribed by Manfred Helfert.
© 1958 Sanga Music Inc., New York, NY
If you'll gather 'round me, children,
A story I will tell
'Bout Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw,
Oklahoma knew him well.
It was in the town of Shawnee,
A Saturday afternoon,
His wife beside him in his wagon
As into town they rode.
There a deputy sheriff approached him
In a manner rather rude,
Vulgar words of anger,
An' his wife she overheard.
Pretty Boy grabbed a log chain,
And the deputy grabbed his gun;
In the fight that followed
He laid that deputy down.
Then he took to the trees and timber
To live a life of shame;
Every crime in Oklahoma
Was added to his name.
But a many a starving farmer
The same old story told
How the outlaw paid their mortgage
And saved their little homes.
Others tell you 'bout a stranger
That come to beg a meal,
Underneath his napkin
Left a thousand dollar bill.
It was in Oklahoma City,
It was on a Christmas Day,
There was a whole car load of groceries
Come with a note to say:
Well, you say that I'm an outlaw,
You say that I'm a thief.
Here's a Christmas dinner
For the families on relief.
Yes, as through this world I've wandered
I've seen lots of funny men;
Some will rob you with a six-gun,
And some with a fountain pen.
And as through your life you travel,
Yes, as through your life you roam,
You won't never see an outlaw
Drive a family from their home.
Lyrics as reprinted in Woody Guthrie, American Folksong, New York, NY, 1961
(reprint of 1947 edition), p. 27
© 1958 Sanga Music Inc., New York, NY
Pretty Boy Floyd, Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, Simon and Schuster, 1995
Yes, I am on a roll in reviewing Larry McMurtry inspired works (this one is co-written with his fellow screenplay writer Diana Ossana), although the subject of this presentation, the tale of Pretty Boy Floyd the Oklahoma dust bowl outlaw from the Depression-era 1930’s, has always had a certain personal appeal unlike some previously reviewed McMurtry anti-heroes. The name Pretty Boy Floyd is well known to me from my youth listening to Oklahoma- born Woody Guthrie on a folk music program that I tuned into on the radio in the early 1960’s. The tale that Woody told played into (and still plays into) my attraction toward Robin Hood-type figures (whether truly so or not) as part of the American struggle against the old time capitalist bosses and their bankers. Take this line – “Some will rob you with a six-gun, And some with a fountain pen”. Sound familiar today?
Of course the reality, as the plot in this book makes abundantly clear, is that these so-called heroic figures tend to either have feet of clay or have been glorified through sheer "trade-puffing” publicity agents, voluntary or otherwise. Nor is Pretty Boy alone in that category. On a scholarly level the late British Marxist historian Eric Hobsbawn spend the early part of his professional career investigating these types in his seminal work, "Primitive Rebels" and other sociological monograms on the subject of social bandits. But enough of the scholarly here because what our two authors have attempted to do here is to take a little away from that heroic notion and tell the tale as it more probably happened- including the boredom and monotony of everyday life even for well-known outlaws.
Pretty Boy’s tale is standard 1930’s stuff. Nothing doing at home except hard words, hard work, no pay and no adventure on the old homestead. That’s 1930’s Oklahoma in a nutshell. So off to the big city to learn a trade. The trade being robbing banks. Every profession has its rules and etiquette and as the authors tell this tale we are treated to some insights into those customs. But mainly it is set up the job, avoid getting shot and get away fast. If not, then jail, the hangman or shot down in some dark alley. Of course, this would not be a McMurtry-inspired novel if there was not a ton of sex, longings for sex or exasperations with sex. That, I might add, is true for those of us who are not social bandits as well. This is a decent read from a period that kind of marked off the Old West from the new-Tommy guns and fast cars did not figure in those Old West tales, right?
So that is the story line. I have added below, for comparison purposes, the lyrics from Woody Guthrie’s song "Pretty Boy Floyd". And here I will get political. Our Robin Hood figures express that certain longing to escape from the tyrannies of the day. All well and good, however, a close look at the social dynamics of even the Pretty Boy Floyd tale tells us that this is not the way to individual to speak nothing of societal justice. That is food for thought.
********
He [Woody Guthrie] also wrote a series of ballads about outlaws, celebrating them as the populist heroes they'd been back in Oklahoma, as poor people who preyed on the rich. He wrote about the Dalton gang,... and about the brazen woman outlaw Belle Starr. But the most famous of his outlaw ballads, and one of his finest pieces of work, was "The Ballad of Pretty Boy Floyd," which he wrote in March of 1939.
Joe Klein, Woody Guthrie: A Life, London, 1981, p. 123
Lyrics as recorded by Woody Guthrie, RCA Studios, Camden, NJ, 26 Apr 1940, released on "Dust Bowl Ballads," transcribed by Manfred Helfert.
© 1958 Sanga Music Inc., New York, NY
If you'll gather 'round me, children,
A story I will tell
'Bout Pretty Boy Floyd, an outlaw,
Oklahoma knew him well.
It was in the town of Shawnee,
A Saturday afternoon,
His wife beside him in his wagon
As into town they rode.
There a deputy sheriff approached him
In a manner rather rude,
Vulgar words of anger,
An' his wife she overheard.
Pretty Boy grabbed a log chain,
And the deputy grabbed his gun;
In the fight that followed
He laid that deputy down.
Then he took to the trees and timber
To live a life of shame;
Every crime in Oklahoma
Was added to his name.
But a many a starving farmer
The same old story told
How the outlaw paid their mortgage
And saved their little homes.
Others tell you 'bout a stranger
That come to beg a meal,
Underneath his napkin
Left a thousand dollar bill.
It was in Oklahoma City,
It was on a Christmas Day,
There was a whole car load of groceries
Come with a note to say:
Well, you say that I'm an outlaw,
You say that I'm a thief.
Here's a Christmas dinner
For the families on relief.
Yes, as through this world I've wandered
I've seen lots of funny men;
Some will rob you with a six-gun,
And some with a fountain pen.
And as through your life you travel,
Yes, as through your life you roam,
You won't never see an outlaw
Drive a family from their home.
Lyrics as reprinted in Woody Guthrie, American Folksong, New York, NY, 1961
(reprint of 1947 edition), p. 27
© 1958 Sanga Music Inc., New York, NY
On The Question Of Cease Fires
Commentary
As the reader is probably aware of by now the Israeli government, under whatever prodding from its international allies and pressure from worldwide outrage, has called a unilateral military cease fire (as of this writing) in its dispute with the Hamas-led government in Gaza. Given, the military and political realities, or for that matter the dire humanitarian situation in Gaza no one can be unhappy to see the slaughter stopped (over 1200 Palestinians killed, including many women and children, and thousand more injured and homeless. This, however, begs the question about the radical anti-imperialist, anti-capitalist position on cease fires. In short, where or when do we call for them and to whom do we address the question.
A cease fire, in the final analysis, reflects one option of many in a military situation. In the present case while we welcome a cease fire we did not call on Israel to do so. All of our sympathies here are with the beleaguered Palestinians, despite their Hamas political leadership. We called for military defense of the Hamas-led forces against Israel. We would have supported a cease fire called by those forces, if the military called for it as is apparent here with the disproportion of forces.
The real question for those of us who called for the defense of the Palestinian people is whether we contract out the question of a cease fire to one of more of the imperialist allies of Israel or some imperialist-dominated international agency, like the United Nations. No, we do not do that. As even a brief look at the sordid history of imperialist-brokered cease fires and other military maneuvers demonstrates, at the end of the day this neither does anything for the beleaguered forces we support nor does it resolve any of the questions that are on the historic agenda. All such efforts on the part of militants, well meaning or not, and there have been more than a few socialists who have called on these imperialist agencies, is a rather touching faith in these institutions. Some defense of the Palestinian people! More on this later, as this is hardly a fully worked out exposition on the matter.
As the reader is probably aware of by now the Israeli government, under whatever prodding from its international allies and pressure from worldwide outrage, has called a unilateral military cease fire (as of this writing) in its dispute with the Hamas-led government in Gaza. Given, the military and political realities, or for that matter the dire humanitarian situation in Gaza no one can be unhappy to see the slaughter stopped (over 1200 Palestinians killed, including many women and children, and thousand more injured and homeless. This, however, begs the question about the radical anti-imperialist, anti-capitalist position on cease fires. In short, where or when do we call for them and to whom do we address the question.
A cease fire, in the final analysis, reflects one option of many in a military situation. In the present case while we welcome a cease fire we did not call on Israel to do so. All of our sympathies here are with the beleaguered Palestinians, despite their Hamas political leadership. We called for military defense of the Hamas-led forces against Israel. We would have supported a cease fire called by those forces, if the military called for it as is apparent here with the disproportion of forces.
The real question for those of us who called for the defense of the Palestinian people is whether we contract out the question of a cease fire to one of more of the imperialist allies of Israel or some imperialist-dominated international agency, like the United Nations. No, we do not do that. As even a brief look at the sordid history of imperialist-brokered cease fires and other military maneuvers demonstrates, at the end of the day this neither does anything for the beleaguered forces we support nor does it resolve any of the questions that are on the historic agenda. All such efforts on the part of militants, well meaning or not, and there have been more than a few socialists who have called on these imperialist agencies, is a rather touching faith in these institutions. Some defense of the Palestinian people! More on this later, as this is hardly a fully worked out exposition on the matter.
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