For Bob Dylan-Happy Birthday Mississippi John Hurt-Tribute Album Potpourri- A Tip Of The Hat To Greg Brown- Keeping The Folk Tradition Alive

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Greg Brown In Concert.

This Is Part Of A Four Artist Tribute Album Potpourri- A Tip Of The Hat To Hank Williams, Mississippi John Hurt, Bob Dylan and Greg Brown.

CD REVIEW

A musical performer knows that he or she has arrived when they have accumulated enough laurels and created enough songs to be worthy, at least in some record producer's eyes, of a tribute album. When they are also alive to accept the accolades as two out of the four of the artists under review are, which in these cases is only proper, that is all to the good. That said, not all tribute albums are created equally. Some are full of star-studded covers, others are filled with lesser lights who have been influenced by the artist that they are paying tribute to. As a general proposition though I find it a fairly rare occurrence, as I have noted in a review of the “Timeless” tribute album to Hank Williams, that the cover artist outdoes the work of the original recording artist. With that point in mind I will give my “skinny” on the cover artists here.

Keeping The Folk Tradition Alive

Going Driftless: An Artists’ Tribute To Greg Brown, Red House Records, various artists, 2002

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 this tribute album “Driftless” where she does a cover of “The Train Carrying Jimmie Rodgers Home” (complete with yodel at the end).

Greg Brown is a particular kind of folk singer who before I listened to his “Greg Brown Live” album 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 more in the overt political message songs provided by the likes of Bob Dylan or Phil Ochs. 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.

So what is good here beside the above-mentioned “Jimmy Rodgers”. This, by the way, is an all women’s tribute album; make of that what you will. Lucinda Williams (as almost always, she does great cover work) on “Lately”. Eliza Gulkinson on “Sleeper”. Listen particularly to Ani DeFranco on the extremely thoughtful “The Poet’s Game” (especially the lines about the strip malls taking over the countryside, a lost poet friendship and that mysterious reference to a New Hampshire night of passion). For the rest Shawn Colvin’s “Say A Little Prayer” sticks out. Listen on.


"Billy From The Hills"

Lyrics to Billy From The Hills :

No one now knows too much about these woods,
They got lost, they wouldn't know where to go.
Tribe's been gone a long time, small farmers got blowed out,
Maybe there ain't even that much left to know.
You can strip the trees, foul the streams, try to hide in a progressive dream.
Ease into the comfort that kills.
Before I do that, I'll grab my pack,
And disappear with Billy from the hills.

Blood flows back and back and back and back,
Like a river from a secret source.
I feel it wild in me; I pitched my camp
At the fork where knowledge meets remorse.
Women sing in me that song from the ancient fire,
I just open my mouth and what comes out gives me chills.
I got my song from a secret place,
I got my face from Billy from the hills.

A 40-inch barrel on that shotgun,
Steel traps in a cane pack on his back.
Eighteen years old, surrounded by the Ozarks,
Ain't one little bit of that boy that's slack.
If you're looking for a helping hand,
He'll give you one, you know he will.
If you're looking for trouble, huh-uh, turn around,
You don't want to mess with Billy from the hills.

Some folks dance cool, all angles and swaying hips,
Sensual as all get out and in.
Me, I'm a hick, and I dance like one,
I just kind of jump around and grin.
I know a guy, he doesn't dance too much,
But when he does, he gives everyone a thrill
You might run away or suck it up and stay,
When he dances, Billy from the hills.

There's a lantern lit on a Missouri night,
A woman writing poems by a stove.
She knows the fox's whereabouts by knoll, by gulch, by yelp,
As he runs at night through her mother love.
Her memory to me is like watercress from a spring-fed stream,
Fresh and aching as a mockingbird's trill.
She lives in me; I try to look until
I can see for her and her boy, Billy from the hills.

It's a drifting time, people are fascinated by screens,
No idea what's on the other side.
We stare at doom like an uptight groom,
And live our lives like a drunken bride.
Tonight I feel something on the wind,
Deep inside where we have to die or kill.
Something I know I didn't know I knew,
I learned from Billy from the hills

Lyrics to Your Town Now :

I used to go out quite a lot,
Chase to chase and shot to shot.
I'm all done with that somehow,
And it's your town now.

These days the mighty eagle sings,
Of money and material things,
And the almighty Dow,
And it's your town now,
Your town now,
It's-

From the mountains to the plains
All the towns are wrapped in chains,
And the little that the law allows,
And it's your town now,
It's your town now,
It's-

Where are the young bands gonna play?
Where're the old beatniks gonna stay,
And not before some corporation bow?
And it's your town now,
It's your town now,
It's-

So be careful everyone,
Cops can get careless with their guns.
And then they slip off somehow,
And it's your town now,
It's your town now,
It's-

You young ones it's up to you
To fight the fight and I hope you do,
Oh I see in your eyes that you know how
And it's your town now
Your town now.

Don't let 'em take the whole damn deal,
Don't give up on what you really feel.
Ah, the small and local must survive somehow,
If it's gonna be your town now.
Is it gonna be your town now?
Is it gonna be your town now?
Is it gonna be?

Lyrics to Mose Allison Played Here :

The joint is a dump
The owner is broke
At least that's what he said
The p.a.'s a joke
The waitpersons are snotty, the bartender's rude
They want to make sure I know they forgot me
But not their attitude
The bellyachers played last night
Everybody got sick
Don't even try dancing, your feet would just stick
The band signs their poster
"fuck u miguel"
And that's all the good part
The bad part's the smell
And what was your name again, oh - yeah - right - brown
Your crowd just drinks water
Surprised you're still around

And nobody's coming, because hey man you see
Advertising's expensive, hey, what guarantee

But as I set up I am proud to be here
Because once last November, Mose Allison played here

Lyrics to 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

Lyrics to 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

[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

[Chorus 2x]

Lyrics to Canned Goods :

Let those December winds bellow 'n' blow
I'm as warm as a July tomato.

[Chorus:]
Peaches on the shelf
Potatoes in the bin
Supper's ready, everybody come on in
Taste a little of the summer,
Taste a little of the summer,
You can taste a little of the summer
My grandma's put it all in jars.

Well, there's a root cellar, fruit cellar down below
Watch you head now, and down you go

And there's
[Chorus]

Maybe you're weary an' you don't give a damn
I bet you never tasted her blackberry jam.

[Chorus]

Ah, she's got magic in her - you know what I mean
She puts the sun and rain in with her green beans.

[Chorus]

What with the snow and the economy and ev'ry'thing,
I think I'll jus' stay down here and eat until spring.

[Chorus]

When I go to see my grandma I gain a lot of weight
With her dear hands she gives me plate after plate.
She cans the pickles, sweet & dill
She cans the songs of the whippoorwill
And the morning dew and the evening moon
'N' I really got to go see her pretty soon
'Cause these canned goods I buy at the store
Ain't got the summer in them anymore.

You bet, grandma, as sure as you're born
I'll take some more potatoes and a thunderstorm.

Peaches on the shelf
Potatoes in the bin
Supper's ready, everybody come on in, now
Taste a little of the summer,
Taste a little of the summer,
Taste a little of the summer,
My grandma put it all in jars.

Let those December winds bellow and blow,
I'm as warm as a July tomato.

*"Our Side of Town – A Red House Records 25th Anniversary Collection”- A CD Review

"Our Side of Town" – A Red House Records 25th Anniversary Collection”- A CD Review

CD Review

“Our Side of Town – A Red House Records 25th Anniversary Collection”
Various Artists, Red House Records, 2008


I have, except as the occasion called for it as in the case of Sun Records or Chess Records, not spent much time discussing the various ups and downs of particular record labels and their attempts to corner a piece of the music market. There is certainly history there, sometimes very interesting history as in the cases of those labels mentioned above, but I leave that for others to toil over. I prefer to concentrate on various musical influences that flow through the folk world, except that here one can not avoid, or should not avoid, paying some respect to the Red House Record label that has been a mainstay of post-1960s folk revival folk music and artists.

Frankly, I know Red House mainly as the long time vehicle for one of the artists performing on this anniversary CD, Greg Brown. And also for a few late efforts by Rosalie Sorrels, especially her tribute to Utah Phillips last year. Of course, those two names tell you much about what this label is about and about the musical traditions of not just the past 25 years of folk and folk rock but the last half century.

This label has also been the launching pad for some lesser known names like Jimmy LaFave, Lucy Kaplansky, Eliza Gilkyson, and the Wailin’ Jenny’s. What you have here, my friends, are tributes by the performers who have struggled, and sometimes struggled in lonely spots, to keep the folk genre part of the great American songbook. So match up the performers and the label and you have quite a piece of history and a primer of the latter-day folk scene. Listen up.

*An Encore With John Prine- My Arky Angel-The Music Of Iris DeMent

Click on to title to link to YouTube's film clip of Iris Dement and John Prine performing "In Spite Of Ourselves".



DVD Review

John Prine At Sessions At West 54th, John Prine with Iris Dement and various artists, OnBoy Records, 2001



Over the last several months I have done more musically-oriented reviews that I had expected. One of the themes that keep cropping up is that for some folk/blues-oriented musical artists like Bob Dylan my attachment was immediate, long time and on-going. For other artists like John Prine it has been more of a recently acquired taste. I had, obviously, heard Bonnie Raitt do his "Angel From Montgomery" but I never associated his name with that song. Then a couple of years ago I happened to listen to his "Hello In There" and "Sam Stone". Yes, this guy has something to say that I wanted to (on some songs, needed to) hear.

This concert represents a small selection of some of his work, although with the exception of "Sam Stone", "Lake Marie" and "Hello in There" not much in the way of classics, at least that I am familiar with. This concert would thus only rate as a pretty fair performance except that on a few songs like "When Two World Collide" he is accompanied by Iris Dement ( a powerful folk singer/song writer in her own right. She is also the wife of the folksinger/songwriter Greg Brown whom I have also reviewed in this space). Iris is also a recent acquisition. I would travel very far to hear that voice of hers (and have done so). Incidentally, I have seen both these performers in person over the past couple of years- they still have it. Still this is not the DVD that YOU need to understand either talent, but you may want it.

*Hello, In There- The Music Of John Prine

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of John Prine performing "Hello, In There".

DVD Review

John Prine At Sessions At West 54th, John Prine with Iris Dement and various artists, OnBoy Records, 2001

Over the last several months I have done more musically-oriented reviews that I had expected. One of the themes that keep cropping up is that for some folk/blues-oriented musical artists like Bob Dylan my attachment was immediate, long time and on-going. For other artists like John Prine it has been more of a recently acquired taste. I had, obviously, heard Bonnie Raitt do his "Angel From Montgomery" but I never associated his name with that song. Then a couple of years ago I happened to listen to his "Hello In There" and "Sam Stone". Yes, this guy has something to say that I wanted to (on some songs, needed to) hear.

This concert represents a small selection of some of his work, although with the exception of "Sam Stone", "Lake Marie" and "Hello In There" not much in the way of classics, at least that I am familiar with. This concert would thus only rate as a pretty fair performance except that on a few songs like "When Two World Collide" he is accompanied by Iris Dement (wife of the folksinger/songwriter Greg Brown). Iris is also a recent acquisition. I would travel very far to hear that voice of hers (and have done so). Incidentally, I have seen both these performers in person over the past couple of years- they still have it. Still this is not the DVD that YOU need to understand either talent, but you may want it.

John Prine, Hello in There Lyrics

We had an apartment in the city,
Me and Loretta liked living there.
Well, it'd been years since the kids had grown,
A life of their own left us alone.
John and Linda live in Omaha,
And Joe is somewhere on the road.
We lost Davy in the Korean war,
And I still don't know what for, don't matter anymore.

Chorus:
Ya' know that old trees just grow stronger,
And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day.
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello."

Me and Loretta, we don't talk much more,
She sits and stares through the back door screen.
And all the news just repeats itself
Like some forgotten dream that we've both seen.
Someday I'll go and call up Rudy,
We worked together at the factory.
But what could I say if asks "What's new?"
"Nothing, what's with you? Nothing much to do."

Repeat Chorus:

So if you're walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes,
Please don't just pass 'em by and stare
As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."

John Prine, Sam Stone Lyrics

Sam Stone came home,
To his wife and family
After serving in the conflict overseas.
And the time that he served,
Had shattered all his nerves,
And left a little shrapnel in his knee.
But the morphine eased the pain,
And the grass grew round his brain,
And gave him all the confidence he lacked,
With a Purple Heart and a monkey on his back.

Chorus:
There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin' I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don't stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.
Mmm....

Sam Stone's welcome home
Didn't last too long.
He went to work when he'd spent his last dime
And Sammy took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime.
And the gold rolled through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains,
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose,
While the kids ran around wearin' other peoples' clothes...

Repeat Chorus:

Sam Stone was alone
When he popped his last balloon
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair
Well, he played his last request
While the room smelled just like death
With an overdose hovering in the air
But life had lost its fun
And there was nothing to be done
But trade his house that he bought on the G, I. Bill
For a flag draped casket on a local heroes' hill

Repeat Chorus


John Prine, Angel from Montgomery Lyrics

I am an old woman named after my mother
My old man is another child that's grown old
If dreams were lightning thunder was desire
This old house would have burnt down a long time ago

Chorus:
Make me an angel that flies from montgom'ry
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go

When I was a young girl well, I had me a cowboy
He weren't much to look at, just free rambling man
But that was a long time and no matter how I try
The years just flow by like a broken down dam.

Repeat chorus:

There's flies in the kitchen I can hear 'em there buzzing
And I ain't done nothing since I woke up today.
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say.

Repeat chorus:

*Today's Burning Question Of The Day- The Search For The Great Working Class Love Song (In English)- "1952 Vincent Black Lightning "

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Richard Thompson performing his "1952 Vincent Black Lightning". I was not able to find Greg Brown's, the first performer I heard do the song, a high-powered guitar playing cover of this classic motorcycle love song.

Markin comment:

No, old Markin has not gone off the deep end. But every once in a while I like to get a little whimsical, especially if I have music on my mind. Let’s face it , communist political realists that we are we cannot (or should not go) 24/7 on the heavy questions of health care, the struggle against the banks and other capitalist institutions, the fight for a working wage and the big fight looming ahead on Afghanistan without a little relief. So, for this moment, I ask this question –what is the great working class love song (in English)?

Now there are plenty of them I am sure but I control the stick today. You have to choose between my two (now three, see today's addition of "James Alley Blues") selections. Richard Thompson’s classic motorcycle love song (which, of course, if you read the lyrics, borders very closely to the lumpen proletarian-but so does working class existence, especially down among the working poor, for that matter). Or, Tom Waits’ version of the classic weekend freedom seeking “Jersey Girl”. And, after that……… Obama, Troops Out Of Afghanistan- Free Quality Health care For All- Down With The Wall Street Bankers. See, I told you I had not gone off the deep end.




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

From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin- With Greg Brown’s “Walkin’ Daddy” In Mind

CD Review

Greg Brown-One Night- Greg Brown, Red House Records, 2000

…he came out of the heartlands, smack in the heart of the many-rivered heartlands, the place where America learned its rough-hewn democratic manners, learned to do without in a pitch, learned to lean, gently lean, on one’s goodfellow neighbor and return the favor, and learned to curse the world that impinged on its graces. Yah, he came of age out in those fields, corn, wheat, soy, barley, hell, even a strawberry patch, came out swinging, came out all Carl Sandburg hog butcher to the world, grain elevator to the world, mighty steel- maker to the world to sing, troubadour sing, just at that time when the earth had given up on troubadours, and their sing-song material, had given up on smoky meaningful Village cafes and smart North Beach hip hideaways, and gave that art form, that blessed angel democratic art form, ready to go under in a torrent of hubris and bad air a reprieve for a time.

And he sang, sang and wrote, and sang again of those heartland woes, sorrows, sadnesses, and joys, of coming of age, of grandma this and aunt that, and of their bounty and natural graces, of kindred Ozark hillbilly forbears heading west, of their moons and mishaps, of their rivers and wrongs, of old town life, livable town life, folded up in the night and vanished, of his father, image father, speaking of hillbillies, of walking daddy and of becoming walking daddies. Of fresh floundering love, all experimental and awkward, played out in grassy fields, along two-hearted rivers, and later in back seat cars and teenage dream lovers’ lanes, and every other spot where young love could blossom.

He cried out, cried out in pain I tell you, to see the despoliation of his land, to see the crooks and crackpots grabbing greedily for all that they did not create, to see the fading of the American, his American, sun for he could unlike others love his country if no those who governed it. Of the glue of society coming undone against the savage beast mall, the savage beast armies of destruction, the savage beast ultra-modern ways of thinking, ways of negating and mocking those simple child-learned graces. He sang too, maybe just a bit too much too, of Michigan, really UP, ur-Michigan, of fishing, damn blasted fishing, and some curled up book life as way to salve his soul. So be it.

And he sang, and let’s be candid in a non-candid world, of women, of every blessed angel devil one of them, of man’s woman woes and wonders, of sleepy and sweaty bed sheet nights, of armed truces, and unarmed truces, and flat out wars, wars that made international wars seem civilized by contrast, of modern day psych-outs and spills, of cheap hotel loves fortified by liquor, and fortified by desperate lonelinesses, of elegances and elegies, and of torrid love, and dead ashen flames of love gone off the track that no UP, no big two-hearted river, no Missouri grandma wisdom could save.

… and hence this album

*I Hear The Voice Of My Arky Angel-Once Again, The Music Of Iris Dement

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Iris DeMent performing "Our Town". Every once in a while I NEED to hear that voice, especially her "These Hills" and "After You've Gone". Today is one of those days

CD REVIEW

Infamous Angel, Iris Dement, Rounder Records, 1992

Frankly, and I admit this publicly for the first time in this space, I love Ms. Iris Dement. Not personally, of course, but through her voice, her lyrics and her musical presence. This ‘confession’ may seem rather startling coming from a reviewer who is as likely here to go on and on about Bolsheviks, ‘Che’, Leon Trotsky, high communist theory and the like. Especially, as well given Ms. Dement’s seemingly simple quasi- religious themes and commitment to paying homage to her rural background in song. All such discrepancies though go out the window here. Why?

Well, for one, this old radical got a lump in his throat the first time he heard “These Hills”. Okay, that happens sometimes-once- but why did he have the same reaction on the fifth and twelfth hearings? Explain that. I can easily enough. If, on the very, very remotest chance, there is a heaven then I know one of the choir members. Enough said. By the way give a listen to “Sweet Forgiveness” and “After You’ve Gone” (with that great line about 'knowing' every line in her man's face. Then you too will be in love with Ms. Iris Dement. Iris, here is my proposal. If you get tired of fishing the U.P., or wherever, with Mr. Greg Brown, get bored with his endless twaddle about old Iowa farms or going on and on about Grannma's cellar just whistle. Better yet just yodel like you did on “Jimmie Rodgers Going Home” on that “Driftless” CD.

INFAMOUS ANGEL (Iris DeMent)
(c) 1992 Songs of Iris/Forerunner Music, Inc. ASCAP

Last night before I went to sleep my knees dropped to the floor
I turned me eyes up to the sky and I prayed "Please help me, Lord,
you know I've sowed my wild oats and now the fun's all gone"
and then I heard these tender words
and I put them in my song:

"Infamous Angel come on home
to someone who loves you and knows you needed to roam
Grab your things, a ticket's waiting at the bus depot
for: Infamous Angel, Destination: Home"

I heard heaven's choir rejoicing as the tears broke from my eyes
and all at once it lifted the weight from my past life
I found a pen and I left a note on the dresser drawer
"Infamous Angel, she don't live here anymore"

Infamous Angel come on home
to someone who loves you and knows you needed to roam
Grab your things, a ticket's waiting at the bus depot
for: Infamous Angel, Destination: Home

Then I hurried out the back door as quickly as I could
I went flying down two flights of stairs 'til on the street I stood
and there I took that final look at my old neighbourhood
Then I ran down the street proclaiming "Angel gone for good"

Infamous Angel going home
to someone who loves her and knows she needed to roam
She grabbed her things and claimed the ticket at the bus depot
for: Infamous Angel, Destination: Home
Infamous Angel, Destination: Home



SWEET FORGIVENESS (Iris DeMent)
(c) 1992 Songs of Iris/Forerunner Music, Inc. ASCAP

Sweet forgiveness, that's what you give to me
when you hold me close and you say "That's all over"
You don't go looking back,
you don't hold the cards to stack,
you mean what you say.

Sweet forgiveness, you help me see
I'm not near as bad as I sometimes appear to be
When you hold me close and say
"That's all over, and I still love you"

There's no way that I could make up for those angry words I said
Sometimes it gets to hurting and the pain goes to my head

Sweet forgiveness, dear God above
I say we all deserve a taste of this kind of love
Someone who'll hold our hand,
and whisper "I understand, and I still love you"



AFTER YOU'RE GONE (Iris DeMent)
(c) 1992 Songs of Iris/Forerunner Music, Inc. ASCAP

There'll be laughter even after you're gone
I'll find reasons to face that empty dawn
'cause I've memorized each line in your face
and not even death can ever erase the story they tell to me

I'll miss you, oh how I'll miss you
I'll dream of you and I'll cry a million tears
but the sorrow will pass and the one thing that will last
is the love that you've given to me

There'll be laughter even after you're gone
I'll find reason and I'll face that empty dawn
'cause I've memorized each line in your face
and not even death could ever erase the story they tell to me



MAMA'S OPRY (Iris DeMent)
[note: harmony vocals provided by Emmylou Harris]
(c) 1992 Songs of Iris/Forerunner Music, Inc. ASCAP

She grew up plain and simple in a farming town
Her daddy played the fiddle and use to do the calling
when they had hoedowns
She said the neighbors would come
and they'd move all my grandma's furniture 'round
and there'd be twenty or more there on the old wooden floor
dancing to a country sound

The Carters and Jimmy Rodgers played her favourite songs
and on Saturday nights there was a radio show
and she would sing along
and I'll never forget her face when she revealed to me
that she'd dreamed about singing at The Grand Ol' Opry

Her eyes, oh how they sparkled when she sang those songs
While she was hanging the clothes on the line
I was a kid just a humming along
Well, I'd be playing in the grass,
to her what might've seemed obliviously
but there ain't no doubt about it, she sure made her mark on me

She played old gospel records on the phonograph
She turned them up loud and we'd sing along
but those days have passed
Just now that I am older it occurs to me
that I was singing in the grandest opry

And we sang Sweet Rose of Sharon, Abide With Me
'til I ride The Gospel Ship to Heaven's Jubilee
and In That Great Triumphant Morning my soul will be free
and My Burdens Will Be Lifted when my Saviour's face I see
So I Don't Want to Get Adjusted to This World below
but I know He'll Pilot Me 'til it comes time to go
Oh, nothing on this earth is half as dear to me
as the sound of my Mama's Opry

And we sang Sweet Rose of Sharon, Abide With Me
'til I ride The Gospel Ship to Heaven's Jubilee
and In That Great Triumphant Morning my soul will be free
and My Burdens Will Be Lifted when my Saviour's face I see
So I Don't Want to Get Adjusted to This World below
but I know He'll Pilot Me 'til it comes time to go
Oh, nothing on this earth is half as dear to me
as the sound of my Mama's Opry



HIGHER GROUND (Iris DeMent)
[note: lead vocal by Flora Mae DeMent, backing vocals by "The Infamous Angel Choir" (Iris, etc.)]
Traditional, public domain

[Spoken intro by Iris: "No voice has inspired me more than my mother's. She showed me that music is a pathway to higher ground".]

I'm pressing on the upward way
New heights I'm gaining every day
Still praying as I'm onward bound
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground

Lord, lift me up and let me stand
by faith on Heaven's table land
A higher plain than I have found
Lord, plant me feet on higher ground

My heart has no desire to stay
where doubts arise and fears dismay
Though some may dwell where these abound
my prayer, my aim, is higher ground

Lord, lift me up and let me stand
by faith on Heaven's table land
A higher plain than I have found
Lord, plant me feet on higher ground

I want to scale the utmost heights
and catch a gleam of glory bright
but still I'll pray 'til heaven I've found
Lord, lead me on to higher ground

Lord, lift me up and let me stand
by faith on Heaven's table land
A higher plain than I have found
Lord, plant me feet on higher ground

Lord, lift me up and let me stand
by faith on Heaven's table land
A higher plain than I have found
Lord, plant me feet on higher ground

*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

*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.

*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!

*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.

*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.

*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]