Lyrics I Wish I Had Written

Sometimes you just go, how did they do that? Where did that come from? 

For me, here's just a sampling:

Too cool to be forgotten

House rules, no exceptions

No bad language, no gambling, no fighting

Sorry, no credit, don't ask

Bathroom wall reads: Is God the answer? Yes.

Ninety-nine and a half just won't do.

Outside my window, I can hear the radio,

And I know that motor wagon is ready to fly,

'cause it's almost Saturday night.

So often times it happens that we live our lives in chains

And we never even know we have the key.

I wanna watch the ocean bend

the edges of the sun then

I wanna get swallowed up in

An ocean of love

I've lost count of the times I've given up on you

But you make such a beautiful wreck, you do

Ya, you make such a beautiful wreck, you do

You make such a beautiful wreck, you do

At the dark end of this bar

What a beautiful wreck you are.

It's better to burn out than it is to rust.

She said her name was Billie Jean and she was fresh in town.

I didn’t know a stage line ran from hell.

And feelin' good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues

  You know, feelin' good was good enough for me

I wished I was in Austin

In the Chili Parlor Bar

Drinking Mad Dog margaritas.

Won't you share a common disaster?

Some people ain't no damn good

You can't trust 'em, you can't love 'em

No good deed goes unpunished.

Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?

You been out ridin' fences for so long now

Oh, you're a hard one

I know that you got your reasons

These things that are pleasin' you

Can hurt you somehow

Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger

Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home

And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'

Your prison is walking through this world all alone

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.

Don't let 'em pick guitars or drive them old trucks.

Let 'em be doctors and lawyers and such.

Don't think twice

It's all right.

Why'd you let go of your guitar

Why'd you ever let it go that far

Drunken Angel

Everyday is a winding road

I get a little bit closer

Everyday is a faded sign

I get a little bit closer to feeling fine.

Got two reasons why I cry away each lonely night,

The first one's named sweet Anne Marie and she's my heart's delight.

The second one is prison, babe, the sheriff's on my trail,

And if he catches up with me, I'll spend my life in jail.

Georgia, Georgia, no peace I find.

Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind.

Even God must get the blues.

God must hate me

He cursed me for eternity

God must hate me

Maybe you should pray for me

Did she make you cry

Make you break down

Shatter your illusions of love

Is it over now- do you know how

Pick up the pieces and go home.

Oh good shepherd

Feed my sheep

So I bought a guitar and I practiced real hard

I wasn't much good, but I was willin'

Till to my chagrin, my girlfriend came in

And she said, "Can you sing any Dylan?"

Out all night playing in a band

looking for a fight

with a guitar in your hand

with a GUITAR in your hand

We all got holes to fill

and them holes are all that's real

some fall on you like a storm

sometimes you dig your own.

I am just a poor boy

Work’s my middle name

If money was the reason

Well I would not be the same.

I love this town... like an unmade bed

I need a love to keep my happy.

It's a long way to Texas... it's a long way back home

It's a three hour flight on the plane when I go

... away from this snow from Boston to South Shore where the

Dreams roll and tumble... and bring the prose to the wheel...

If you're goin' through hell,

Keep on goin'.

Don't slow down:

If you're scared don't show it.

You might get out,

'Fore the devil even knows you're there.

It ain't wise to need someone

As much as I depended on you.

It's goodbye to all my friends.

It's time to go again.

Now that we come showin' up

Rumors bouncin' off of that truck

Just a let 'em stare at her and me

'Cause I don't care about anything but us

And there's nothing wrong with me

This is how I'm supposed to be

In a land of make believe

That don't believe in me

And when you said I scared you,

Well I guess you scared me too.

If I had possession of Judgement Day

I wouldn't have no right to pray.

Now I'm leaving Normal and heading towards Who Knows Where.

I've finally learned that there's good and bad

And that a guy can do some choosin',

Of that I'm glad cause this heart and face

Won't take any more bruisin'.

And the next time I fall in another's arms

There's one thing I'll be certain,

That she can bear the weight of the love I give

Without considering it a burden.

Living Life #9.

When you can't find a friend

You've still got the radio.

Livin' on refried dreams.

Guess I've got that old travlin' bone, 'cause this feelin' won't leave me alone.

But I won't, won't be losin' my way, no, no

long as I can see the light.

All I ask

Don't tell anybody the secrets

I told you.

I said "Mama, he's crazy and he scares me

But I want him by my side

though he's wild and he's bad

and sometimes just plain mad

I need him to keep me satisfied"

My Give A Damn's Busted

I got no friends 'cause they read the papers

They can't be seen with me and I'm getting shot down

And I'm feeling mean.

 I'm old enough to know better, but still too young to care.

Why is there one in every crowd, and why do I attract them?

Some rich men came and raped the land,

Nobody caught 'em

Put up a bunch of ugly boxes, and Jesus,

People bought 'em

And they called it Paradise

The place to be

They watched the hazy sun, sinking in the sea

You’re one of a dying breed who only takes what they need

And leaves the rest to the feast of the fools

When someone else along the way asks you to stop and stay

And tell them a story or two

Tell them the one about this old man from Blue River, Arizona

Who is tall and handsome in spite of his lazy eye

Never found no gold on the trail of old Coronado

Spent half of his life waiting on that quittin’ time whistle to blow

Is it too much to demand

I want a full house and a rock and roll band

Pens that won't run out of ink

And cool quiet and time to think.

Hung a sign up in our town
"If you live it up, you won't live it down"
So she left Monte Rio, son
Just like a bullet leaves a gun

With her charcoal eyes and Monroe hips
She went and took that California trip
Oh, the moon was gold, her hair like wind
Said, 'Don't look back, just come on, Jim'

When you said you’d never heard of John Prine
Well I knew right away you weren’t worth my time

And the moral of this story

Is I guess it's easier said than done

To look at what you've been through

And to see what you've become.

Quivers down my backbone

I got the shakes in the knee bones

Shivers down my thigh bones

Like I'm

Shakin' all over

I dont claim a thing
Not a two bit clue
But somebody whispered
War kills the truth

  

You wait in the car on the side of the road
Lemme go and stand awhile, I wanna know you're there but I wanna be alone
If only for a minute or two
I wanna see what it feels like to be without you

Sometimes I get upset

When people treat me bad

Don’t have time to think

So I get real mad

And you can send me dead flowers every morning
Send me dead flowers by the mail
Send me dead flowers to my wedding
And I won't forget to put roses on your grave

An old county road runs by my house and ends on the river bank

In '73 they shut the ferry down

Back up the road there's a church and a store with a bench full of lying old men

In the middle of a wide spot they call a town 

I'm just a young man living to make me old plowing these fields by the river road 

Where hopes dreams and my granddaddy lived and died 

They go as far as my eyes can see but they ain't far enough for me 

When I drive to the river and I look at the other side

I've heard that into every life

a little rain must fall.

If there's any truth to the saying,

Lord, let it be a southern rain.

Blow up your TV throw away your paper

Go to the country, build you a home

Plant a little garden, eat a lot of peaches

Try an find Jesus on your own.

Well, I sat there at the table and I acted real naive

For I knew that topless lady had something up her sleeve.

So what in the world's come over you?

What in heaven's name have you done?

You've broken the speed of the sound of loneliness

You're out there runnin'

Just to be on the run.

I'm the PATRON SAINT of the denial with an ANGEL FACE and a taste for suicidal.

I recall once upon a time,

Livin' was so easy and I felt so fine.

But, my, my, my right before my very eyes,

Satan came with fire to burn me,

Wouldn't listen when they warned me.

A dagger in my back while she's calling me honey,

Wouldn't stand back, for neither love nor money.

The hotter it is you know the hotter it gets.

Every Friday, well, that's when I get paid.

Don't take me on Friday, Lord, 'cause that's when I get paid.

Let me die on Saturday night, ooh, before Sunday gets my head.

Why don't you cash in your chips

Why don't you call it a loss

Not such a big loss

Chalk it up to better luck

This old guitar ain't mine to keep

It's mine to play for a while

To live is to fly, low and high

So shake the dust off of your wings

And the sleep out of your eyes.

Well I been drinkin' again

And I know it's a sin

But I just can't refuse an old friend

Cause life is gettin' me down

And I been two times around

And there ain't nothing but pain around the bend.

Is there anything a man don’t stand to lose,

When the devil wants to take it all away?

Clouds of myst’ry pourin’ confusion on the ground.

Good men through the ages, tryin’ to find the sun;

And I wonder, still I wonder, who’ll stop the rain.

Well you stole it 'cause I needed the cash

And you killed it 'cause I wanted revenge

Well you lied to me 'cause I asked you to

Baby, can we still be friends

  

And I been from Tucson to Tucancary, Tahathapi to Tanapall

Driven every kind of rig that's ever been made

Driven the back roads so I wouldn't get weighed.

And if you give me weed, whites, and wine

And you show me a sign

Then I'll be willing

To be moving.

I'd rather look around me -- compose a better song

'cos that's the honest measure of my worth.

In your pomp and all your glory you're a poorer man than me

as you lick the boots of death born out of fear.

May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind take your troubles away
Both feet on the floor, two hands on the wheel
May the wind take your troubles away

You took my joy   

I want it back.

I don't know what it means when he takes my pulse
And says that I'm a lot like him

Walking down Main Street getting to know the concrete
Looking for a purpose from a neon sign
I would meet you anywhere, western sun meets the air
We'll hit the road, never looking behind

Say that you were stranded on a desert island
What books you gonna bring what friends would tag along
Say you had a month and you knew you were dying
How would you spend your time
What goodbyes would take too long

Every lunatic must be well intentioned
Sets himself apart he's an instrument of God
Took her from the playground to the farmhouse cellar
Kissed her while he killed her like a good Samaritan
They finally found her body many Autumns after
Interviewed her mother who said "she'd now be 21
And although we lost her young
I know the good lord has a plan for all of us"

My father could use a little mercy now
The fruits of his labor fall and rot slowly on the ground
His work is almost over it won't be long, he won't be around
I love my father, he could use some mercy now

Drag queens in limousines
Nuns in blue jeans
Dreamers with big dreams
All took me in

Sam Stone was alone when he played his last request
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair

Back to Square One with the Guitar

Graduate school was one of the most intense long-term experiences I've had in a while. Not that I don't get intense experiences almost on a daily basis. I mean, check out the economy. As I used to say when I started freelancing, homelessness and starvation are great motivators. There's nothing like the realization that I may still end up on a park bench in my old age, huddled under a raggedy-ass thin blanket in the snow. Seriously, I've thought of it. What do you do when the money runs out?

Look back on that first sentence and realize that what grad school was, was long-term. It was a non-stop shot out of a canon where you just kept flying through the air and you never thought you were going to land. I'm reading comments, primarily on Facebook, of people who have started the program at BPT and they are completely overwhelmed, exactly the way I was a year ago. I mean, when do I sleep? When do I see Sue? When do I do anything except study? Even, with all the studying and the completing responsibilities toward your stipend, when do I write? Well, it all came together, you slip into a mean routine and just ride it out.

Now, I'm trying to cobble a life. I'm looking for work, and I'll probably blog about that at some point when I get over the fact that I got hammered on an interview for a job that I thought I had, but didn't really want in the first place, but I had to go for something. I mean, I think I'm done with the corporate world and I certainly don't want to shill for an insurance company, which is what this interview was for. That seriously shows how desperate I am, that I said, Insurance?--no problemo. I'll just check my soul here at the door before I wipe my feet. I never did fit in that well to begin with, and now as I've gotten older and set in the writing world, I fit in even less. I think Sue said it best, It's almost like they can smell I'm an outsider. But the work scene is scary. I want to teach, and teaching jobs are scarce, just like any other job. But I'm...hopeful.

Tonight, though, I got back to music lessons, something I had to give up while in school and something I missed so much. And maybe I'll need the lessons some day in case I need to busk in Park Street. I did have a teacher who once said, in all sincerity, that all musicians should have the experience of playing out on the street or in subway stations. I guess there's a visceral grittiness that happens that leads to the blues. I don't know.

I did get rusty. I was really cruising along, learning and growing as a musician, but then I had to make some real choices and cut things out of my life and just dedicate all my talents and energy to playwriting. Sometimes I wouldn't touch a guitar for a week or two. Or I'd just pick it up and dust it, since that's all it was doing was collecting dust. Or I'd walk past it and run my fingers along the strings like you would a picket fence on the street. That's all changed, and tonight Joe, my old timey teacher, got me started back on square one. Start reading music. Start playing E, F, and G on the first string, and tap it out with my foot. Three notes. It's all back to square one stuff. I don't mind though. I'm back at it. And I want to get into songwriting seriously. I mean, what am I really supposed to do in Park Street?--cover old Lowell George songs? Still, I do love this one.

The Lemonheads at Newbury Comics today at 6:00

The Lemonheads are going to be at Newbury Comics over on--where else?--Newbury Street today at 6:00. If I wasn't going to see Lori McKenna tonight at the Lizard Lounge (tonight she'll have her backup band, so that means she might be playing Monday Afternoon) I'd check these guys.

They were kind of a cult band, who did covered a bunch including Mrs. Robinson and this sweet number from Gram Parsons: I Can't Take It Anymore.

It's dangerous on Boylston Street: Looney Tunes has half-price sale on all CDs...

It's dangerous in here, I said today in Looney Tunes, the used music store up on Boylston Street. Yeah, but it's only half as dangerous as it used to be, came the reply.

Every CD and DVD is on sale for half price during February, so stuff that's already outrageously cheap is so hard to resist.

I stopped myself after five for twenty bucks. Damn economy. Unemployment just isn't going to cover my habit.

Got:
The Jayhawks: Hollywood Town Hall
The Jayhawks: Tomorrow the Green Grass
Alejandro Escovedo: Gravity
Guy Clark: The Essential Guy Clark
Golden Smog: Down by the Old Mainstream

Well, you can pretty much see my tastes right there. But the place is filled with every genre. Always a great place to stop when you're in Boston.

Something good and joyous happened this week

I got two pieces of good news in the past two days that just made my heart sing. They had nothing to do with "career" or employment or anything remotely resembling anything stable or legit and everything to do with living and loving life.

And that they both came from my two daughters, put me in heaven.

Yesterday I wrote my youngest a message on Facebook wondering if for some crazy reason she had Monday off. High school kids nowadays have so many days off, odds were in my favor that she might. And if she didn't, I wondered if maybe we couldn't do a snow dance to work up a snow day.

The reason was, on Sunday night, Sarah Lee Guthrie, granddaughter of Woody and youngest of Arlo, will be playing at Club Passim, and I thought it would be good for her to see Guthrie play. And it wasn't because she wanted to get out of school that Kathryn said she'd like to go. She's a smart, curious kid whose sole reason on earth seems to be to enjoy life. A night out in Cambridge, even with her old man, who I think she still gets quite a kick out of, was simply the better educational choice than high school...well, high school anything, really.

One of many pieces of guilt I constantly carry around with me for leaving the kids' mom the way I did was that it drove a huge wedge between me and my kids. Allison has said a few times now that one of the things that she missed about not having me around was how I always played music--all kinds of music from rock to show tunes to concert. Music is, I think, one of the most important gifts we have on the planet. We don't fully understand how it affects us. (I just heard the other day that some people see colors when they listen to music; how cool is that?) But kids need to be taught it. Otherwise, they're just subject to the whims and pressures of the culture, or what passes of culture. I hate that I wasn't more of an influence to them. And maybe that's why I'm so stoked about Kathryn wanting to see Guthrie. Maybe something of me really did rub off.

I never wanted my kids to grow up straight-laced. I didn't want them wild, either. I wanted them to grow up, experience life, make mistakes, learn from the mistakes, and keep growing and enjoying life. I wanted them to grow up, mature, and be able to stand up for themselves in this life. Make choices and responsible decisions like Kathryn did. I told them both, we all know where drinking and drugs will take us. Go out and make new mistakes. Probably not the most mature and maybe not the most responsible advice for a parent to give, but I think you, and they, got the point.

Then today I was IMing with Allison, who just arrived in Venice. She and some friends have a break from school in Granada and are just sort of bumming around northern Italy. I did something like that when I was about 17, just working for awhile and saving my money and then backpacking through Europe and part of Turkey for three months. And to this day I remember the freedom and the joy of learning and meeting new people and seeing and experiencing new sights. Life should always be that way. And I read Allison's messaging, saying she wants a life on the road (are you reading this Sue?) and me telling her I always did want to travel and she said I should and I said maybe I will. Both my kid tell me I should go back to photography.

My little girl has grown up into a traveler, something to my way of thinking couldn't be more noble. A traveler. Not a tourist, but a traveler, someone who loves the freedom of moving about on this earth and being a citizen of the earth, not some member of some arbitrary geopolitical nonsense.

I think on Monday I wrote on my Twitter status line that I wondered what the week would bring. This week had its moments. So you just ride it all out, and if you find yourself going through hell just keep moving and the devil might not even notice you're there (yes, that's a line from a country song.) And then when something good and joyful comes along, you just grab it and let it take you soaring in the clouds.

Open mike at Club Passim...and a great joke...

It's not because I'm cheap or unemployed with pittance trickling into my bank account. If I had a million dollars I'd still like a good deal and music and finding those great, simple places that put it all together.

Tuesday night is open mike at Club Passim in Cambridge. It's five bucks, or free if you're a member like me. Sue takes guitar lessons from Janet Feld at Club Passim's music school that night, so I go into Cambridge with her and hang out in the club. (I take music theory from Ray Chesna there, but that's fodder for a different posting.)

I've always been a big fan of open mikes. Years ago I saw the likes of Jay Leno, Bob Goldthwait, Lenny Clark, Steven Wright, Tony V, and a boatload of other Boston comedians try out there stuff before they made it big at open mikes at places like the Comedy Connection when it was still at the Charles Playhouse. And if memory serves, the cover was about a buck or two. What a great deal.

Like all open mikes, the one at Club Passim is always a crap shoot. The audience is friendly and supportive to all the acts, especially when someone is struggling. They are always appreciative of good work. To a person, everyone there really loves and cares about music and songwriting.

Some nights you get to see a lot of real up-and-coming talent. Other times it's really spotty. There's no guarantee that the people you're watching will be the next Tracy Chapman or Bob Dylan. A lot depends on luck and drive and talent. For every Jay Leno I saw at the Comedy Connection, I watched a lot of (mostly) guys just bomb. But that's not the point of going. It's seeing the works in progress. It's watching the fits and start. The falling down and getting back up again. It's finding that little gem of a moment whether it's new song or strum pattern or maybe just a line in some lyrics.

Last night was a typical night. One woman sang a song about a guy and a girl not getting along very well, with this line in it: I'm a thief and not a liar so I'm going to keep my mouth shut.

There was a bluegrass duo, guitar and fiddle, named The Whiskey Brothers. The two were so young they didn't look old enough to order, much less drink whiskey, but they played one song called, Block Island that was just so nice and sweet. Hard at some points with some deep bass, I imagined the waters off Block Island.

And toward the end there was a guy named Joel (I didn't catch his last name but he's in the picture above) who finger-picked his way through a song about a road, just perfect and mournful.

Along with musicians, there's a comedian who performs regularly, and an actor who recites poetry. One time I was there and he recited nursery rhymes. That night it wasn't my thing, but another night I listened to him recite a litany of poems about ravens. On and on he went, and it takes a few nights but you start to get a real appreciation for what's going on inside that man's head, whatever it is. There's a comedian, I believe his name is Michael Fast--I hope that's his name; I want to get it right--who is constantly trying out new material. I'm kind of critical and sympathetic of comedians having done stand up before. He has kind of a crazy, deadpan, intentionally dumb way of delivering, and last night he told this joke: I read that book about woman being from Venus and men being from Mars, and I think there's something to that. I met this woman, and we got along, and one night we slept together and when I woke up the next day I noticed she had crop circles in her chest hairs. Okay, it's weird, but it's Cambridge, and that's funny.

d'Rafael: Boston busker

Another busker working hard on Boston's streets and entertaining the tourists is d'Rafael.

He plays acoustic guitar and is accompanied by, I am not kidding you, a percussionist who is keeping the beat on what I swear is a box with an electric pickup.

Born in Lima, Peru, d'Rafael plays Latin Gypsy music, and that pretty much says it all right there. The romance and passion and care-free life imbued in both those cultures is combined in his music so that for those who live in this city, we are transported to another place (which can be a good thing when you're getting tired of horns blaring because a tour bus can't swing around a corner like today when I was listening to d'Rafael). Or for the tourists, they can see that Boston isn't all baked beans, the Freedom Trail, and pawking the cawr in hawvard yawrd.

The multicultural aspect of this city and its surrounding neighborhoods, as represented by d"Rafael's music, is what keep a lot of us from moving to warmer, cheaper cities.

On the Orange Line

A young African-American girl, earbuds firmly plugged in somewhere under her cap and hair, stared hard at her miniaturized MP3 player in her hand like it held the secrets of the universe. She was totally immersed in her music, feeling it, moving to it, singing it quietly. I love seeing that. I don't know where she was, where her music was taking her, but I wanted to go there with her.

Music, particularly now when I'm playing it, does to me what running used to do, only more gently. Running unhinged my mind, and the thoughts just ran free like wild horses. Music transforms me, and just like a warm blanket doesn't get rid of the cold it just protects me from the cold, music doesn't get rid of the bad memories and feelings, they just don't hurt for some reason. Baxter knew what he was doing when he handed me LuLu a year ago.

So, I don't know where that young girl's mind was this morning, but I have a pretty good idea what she was feeling, and it was a joy to see.