Song lyrics

I almost always have a song in my head, playing on a tape in the background of my mind. Like dreams, I've learned that whatever song it is, it's usually a fair indication of my mood, of how I'm feeling. Music means so much to me. In so many ways it saved my life. I'm still alive today thanks to the creativity of some really talented people who shared their gift with the rest of the world. Who shared their experiences and life lessons and widsom in musical form. I put the lyrics down here in this blog so the lyrics also might resonate with the few people who frequent this space.

Me and this Road

But somewhere there's a bridge that'll take us out of here
Free as a river flows
Me and this road.

OTL

Out to lunch

Outside the lines

Over the line

Over the limit

It doesn't matter, it's a great name for a band.

The Sartorialist

Check it out.

Scroll down to Monday, October 1, 2007:
Friday Evening "Accordion Jazz Dance Night" , Milan

Great site, and this is such a sweet posting...

Thanks, K...

The Low Anthem: What the Crow Brings

The CD release has come to Providence! We just sold out The Cutting Room in NYC so come early in the evening to ensure you get your free copy of What the Crow Brings. We'll give away 100 copies.

The line-up for the night is an incredible selection of musicians from VT, Boston, Western Mass, and RI.

The Low Anthem
The Accident that Led Me to the World
Annie Lynch and the Beekeepers
Avi and Celia
Roz Raskin
Chris Pappas (of The Everyday Visuals)
Dennis Emsley

These guys and gals are the real deal. blues, rock, folk, indie, the best of the best

Saturday - October 6

AS220
115 Empire St.
Providence, RI 02903

9pm - all ages - $10 - Free hand-made CDs

We'll see you soon. If you can't go to the show, be sure to download the record from Itunes

also, check out our new website:
www.lowanthem.com

to all, all the best,
Ben, Jeff, The Low Anthem

Breaking the mold

Today, S, a young woman of Indian descent, came to work wearing traditional clothes, and R stepped off the elevator proudly wearing a beautiful pair of Western boots.

Finally, finally, in the same day, two women broke from the standard fashion regalia, the mid-American A&F/Gap/skateboard/surfer-dude uniform so prevalently worn here by all the young white people.

They looked so refreshing.

Boston fire fighters and the First Amendment

On August 29, in the Boston neighborhood of West Roxbury, two fire fighters died while fighting a blaze that started as a grease fire behind the ceiling. "Sources" leaked autopsy reports saying that one was intoxicated and the other had traces of cocaine in his body.

A judge suppressed a television station from reporting the leaks, citing previous rulings about protecting the families of the dead men. Normally, I'd defend First Amendment rights, but in this case, I'm thinking the judge may know what she's doing.

In light of the reports, Boston Mayor Menino ordered a full review of the Boston Fire Department. Okay, not a bad idea, but the media tends to turn stuff like this into dramatic witch hunts. If the city thinks it's a good idea to see if there's a drug and alcohol problem within the ranks of the fire fighters, then do it calmly and intelligently without pointing fingers or bringing politics into play. Do it for the safety of the public and the fire fighters themselves.

None of this should diminish any acts of heroism or simple humanism performed by these two men.

The presidential horse race

Hillary Clinton raised $27 million in the past three months ($27 million!!). Barack Obama raised $20 million. We don't even blink at numbers like that anymore, whether it's fundraising for a presidential election (if you want your candidate to win, damnit, you damn well have to pay for it) to professional athletes to the daily cost of the war in Iraq.

I think usual normal working stiffs just can't comprehend the size of the dollar amount. Just figure out your annual income, think about how hard you work everyday just to make ends meet, then just overlay that figure over a politician's war chest or a baseball pitcher's contract. You start by doubling, then doubling, then doubling some more, realizing that you would make that much sometime around the next ice age. The figures, you realize, are epochal.

Lots of people are saying Clinton is going to win. Bush, they say doesn't have a chance. Obama is losing steam, as indicated by his "lackluster" fundraising in the past three months. (I wish my paycheck was that lackluster.) I don't know about Clinton. The Northeast is so insular. People here forget there areSti 3,000 miles between here and northern California, and I still can't see people in say, Nebraska, voting for Hillary. But other, smarter, more politically astute people start dickering with all the electoral votes, and they say it's clear she'll win.

I'm not sure I'd want either one in the White House, but I know a few people that would just spit nails if Clinton won, and it might be worth seeing the look on their faces to have it happen.

Winter's coming; take a walk

Winter and cold will soon be here. It's the thing about fall that makes me kind of blue. While the days are so gorgeous here in New England, and nature is pulling out all the stops like the horse smelling the barn, I still can't help but think of the dark and cold and wet that soon will be here for so long.

I hate to use the word bittersweet because it's so overused and so cliche and sappy, but that's a bit what it's like. I, like I'm assuming many people, can hold and feel two opposing emotions like joy and despair at the same time. Weird, and it makes for some interesting and frustrating interplay with some people, mostly those who are concrete with their feet planted firmly on the ground. Serious types who insist on the world being black and white.

So...on my commute I've been getting off the train at Back Bay and taking the Orange Line to Chinatown, one stop before Downtown Crossing where this winter I'll be able to get off and keep dry by ducking under overhangs on the short walk to the office. Now, I stroll up Washington Street while I can still enjoy the nice weather.

Downtown Crossing/Washington Street is still vibrant, despite the construction on the Filene's Building that caused all of those vendors to vacate. At that hour workers and street people co-mingle. The constant flow of people delights me. An Asian nun gives way to a heavy-set woman with a small tattoo on her jiggling bosom. Another heavy-set woman pushes a stroller with one hand and walks a small chew-toy dog with the other. It's getting late in the season, but two tourists orient themselves to that standard map the info centers hand out. Rounding the corner of the Filene's Building, I almost run smack into one of those bicycle-riding Boston cops. I try a smile but his work is grim and serious; he wants no part of it.

On the Roadish

Last night I had to pick up my daughter at the high school after what I thought was volleyball practice. Instead she had a game, so I was sitting there in an empty parking lot more than an hour before the team's bus was due to arrive from the game.

Not a problem.

I almost always have a book (this time it was The Monkey Wrench Gang), I had four CDs with me, and I had stopped off at the grocery store before heading over to the high school so I had a bag of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, peanuts, ginger ale, apples, grapes, bananas, cheese, plus a few other things. I was all set.

So I popped in Chris Knight, rolled down the windows so I could hear it, and ate fried chicken, drank a ginger ale, and finished off some peanuts, throwing the bones in a bucket that's rattling around in the bed of my truck and the shells just got tossed in the bed. Just leaning against the truck and thinking about high school and life as I know it in Holliston, Mass. Which is not to say it's all good. It all sounds romantic and On the Roadish, but there's comes a point in your life where you have either have to make changes or die (and sometimes a metaphorical death is worse than the real thing: your eyes are still open) and I think I'm at that point.

Friendship

Now this is more like it.

After blogging just today about my friends, or lack of them, I get this email. This is what I'm talking about.

Now this is more like it!

Are you tired of those sissy "friendship" poems that always sound good, but never actually come close to reality? Well, here is a series of promises that actually speak of true friendship. You will see no cutesy little smiley faces on this email. Just the stone cold truth of our great
friendship....

1. When you are sad -- I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.

2. When you are blue -- I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.

3. When you smile -- I will know you are plotting something that I must be involved in.

4. When you are scared -- I will rag on you about it every chance I get.

5. When you are worried -- I will tell you horrible stories about how much Worse it could be until you quit whining.

6. When you are confused -- I will use little words.

7. When you are sick -- Stay the hell away from me until you are well again. I don't want whatever you have.

8. When you fall -- I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.

9. This is my oath... I pledge it to the end. "Why?" you may ask; "because you are my friend".

Friendship is like peeing your pants, everyone can see it, But only you
can feel the true warmth.

Send this to 10 of your closest friends, Then get depressed because you can only think of four.

Daddy's Junky Music

One of these days I'm going to walk into Daddy's Junky Music and they're going to stop me and say, either buy something or get the hell out. I go in at least once a week around lunchtime, play their expensive guitars, dream a little, then maybe buy some picks, or maybe an occasional songbook.

Which is what I did today. Except...when I walked into the acoustic guitar showroom there was this young guy in there just playing along. Kind of a hippie/troubadour-looking kid with the cap and the slouch.

Okay, usually, when you're the only one in a music showroom you can bang away, but once more people come in you tend to quiet things down a bit, just out of politeness and respect for the other person. Not this guy. He actually started singing. While at first it was kind of annoying, it actually got kind of funny when he started singing because he couldn't sing. Not well, at least. But he sure thought he could. And he couldn't play that well either, because, laughably, he played like I do: kind of repeating the same chords over and over again, because that's all I really know right now.

You got to wonder what the hell goes on in some people's minds. Can he really not hear himself, or is he thinking American Idol is his ticket out here? Does he really think that his boring style of playing is something that everyone wants to hear? Is he really that stupid when it comes to music that he doesn't know good from bad?

Why do I think, "yes", is the answer to all those questions?

Good-bye to all my friends

Good-bye to all my friends. And truthfully, they weren’t my friends to begin with, and I think it’s time to just sort of simplify things.

When I was young, I had maybe one or two very close friends. That seemed to be all I needed. Then something happened, and more and more people entered my life. It was fun (most of the time.) For the most part they were fun to have around; it’s nice to be in the center of things, be invited to parties, but many times I sensed there was something missing, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. It centered around intimacy, the real deep sharing that friends, I thought, did. Like when we were kids, and your best friend knew your deepest secrets, and still liked you for it. That incredible level of trust that you had with a person, knowing that he would always be there. That was always missing. I thought at times I had found it, but I was wrong. So wrong…

I think I make a pretty good friend, in the true sense of the word. But it’s time to stop being a doormat. It’s time to stop letting people walk all over me in the name of friendship.

Sue has said that Americans misuse the word, friend, and that it throws many non-Americans. We use the word friend where other nationalities might say acquaintance. How sweet and naive, huh? In this day of MTV and reality TV, where the vilest, most base people are glorified, I’m looking for some reincarnation of Mayberry RFD. But that’s the way I am. I’m dumb and I'm naive and I’m a hick and I’m “a little bit country.” So what? I like who I am.

I heard a person say he or she was my friend, and I’d think they were talking in the true meaning of the word. I’ve been burned more than a few times on that. It’s taken me a long time to figure this out, because I never wanted to be harsh or hard or hurtful to someone. Rejection is a horrible feeling and I didn’t want to inflict it on anyone.

I watch my daughters and their friends. They are true friends to one another. That's the teen years. As we get older, most of us lose the idealism and dreams of our teens. But I think that we are our most lucid when we're that age. We can still see the world clearly, and we can see who and what we want to be. I know I did. I’ve strayed so far from who I was when I was 18, and when I really try to get centered I go back to that time, to my hopes and dreams when I was that age, and things seem to feel better then.

I think growing up, as it is called, is highly overrated. What's called growing up is really growing hard.

When one of my daughters' friends gets hurt, they're there for one another. They have understanding, and more importantly, empathy. They really feel for one another in the truest way. Adults shut off the feeling, because of the years of feeling eventually wears on them. They're cowards, and run from the pain, even though pain isn't always what they feel. They’d rather shut out the good because of the bad; they, as it is said, throw out the baby with the bathwater.

The perfect moment

The best part of being an insomniac is the quiet hours. The time when the rest of the world is asleep.

I never used to be a morning person. But now, I'm usually awake before 5:00, sometimes the clock says 4:00 and I'm just there. I've heard that as you get older you need less sleep. Or, I don't know if you need less; maybe your body is telling you that life is running out, and you should be aware of it as much as possible. I'm not that old; hell, I'm not old at all. Maybe someone, or something, is telling me life is running out. Sometimes it feels that way.

This morning, I had enough time before chasing the train to sit for a good half hour and just strum my guitar. I sat on the edge of the couch, just staring out at the foggy morning, and there are times when everything just works, the feeling that the day and this life and me and everything is just in sync for the moment. All the bad is gone, and it's a good feeling to coax pretty sounds from an instrument, or make just the right image with a camera, or, as Hemingway wanted to do, write the perfect sentence. That right combination of words, in the right order, no more, no less, that capture the spirit of something beautiful.

So maybe a half hour is all I'll be blessed with today. If that's it, I guess that's it.

The Monkey Wrench Gang

The desert eased his vague anger. Near the dirt road which turned off the highway and led east for ten miles to the volcanic ramparts of Kofa Mountains, he stopped, well away from the traffic, and made himself a picnic lunch. He sat on a warm rock in the blazing spring sun, eating pickle and cheese and ham in onion roll, washing it down with beer, and opened himself through pore and nerve ends to the sweet stillness of the Arizona desert.

The river, the canyon, the desert world was always changing, from moment to moment, from miracle to miracle...

"The wilderness once offered men a plausible way of life," the doctor said. "Now it functions as a psychiatric refuge. Soon there will be no wilderness." He sipped at his bourbon and ice. "Soon there will be no place to go. Then the madness becomes universal." Another thought. "And the universe goes mad."
--Edward Abbey, The Monkey Wrench Gang

Guitar Town

Gotta keep rockin' why I still can
I gotta two pack habit and a motel tan
But when my boots hit the boards I'm a brand new man
With my back to the riser I make my stand
And hey pretty baby won't you hold me tight
We're loadin' up and rollin' out of here tonight
One of these days I'm gonna settle down
And take you back with me to the Guitar Town

When coyotes yell

Worked on it some more last night and here's where it went...starting to think of the tune a bit...it's coming...it's so much fun and so exciting to see a song come alive...

Sue gave me Jonatha Brooke's CD, Plumb, for my birthday. Love the way she writes, love her lyrics and the surprises that come out of the way her songs turn this way and that.

I woke from a bad troubled sleep with somebody on my mind---
I pushed aside the tent flap,
and saw my old friend, the hunter and his dog coming up behind.

What are you doing? I asked. You weren’t due back for another few months,
I couldn’t imagine something wrong, and if there was
I couldn’t imagine him coming to me in a song.

Everything was right, everything was bright, and that’s when the coyotes started to fight.
Ever notice how everyone likes to hear the coyotes yell,
but no one invites them to set a spell?

I pulled on my pants pulled on my boots
and we walked for awhile in the desert night.
I said you always bring a chill, and he laughed and said you have no idea,
and I laughed and said oh maybe I do.
That’s when he looked at me and I looked back
and suddenly felt myself grow a little bit slack.
I gulped real hard and said, now? And he said, well maybe, it was up to me.
My dog’s getting old and so am I,
but still not sure the time is right and he said that’s fine, there’s time.

Everything was right, everything was bright, and that’s when the coyotes started to fight.
Ever notice how everyone likes to hear the coyotes yell,
but no one invites them to set a spell?

We walked some more and he asked me about you,
wondered if I’d miss you and I said sure, you would too.
He didn’t say nothing about that, just shouldered his pack
and gave me that smile, and said, I’ll be back in a while,
how ‘bout you?
Yeah, sure I guess, but I don’t know when,
I wish I did but you know and my voice trailed off then.
He gave a whistle I did too, his dog came running but you know Gus,
he’s always sniffing around for something to fuss..

I couldn’t follow and I couldn’t go back, the desert’s got a way of doing that and that’s when the coyotes started to fight. Ever notice how everyone likes to hear the coyotes yell, but no one invites them to set a spell?

When coyotes yell

I woke from a troubled sleep with somebody on my mind---I pushed aside the tent flap, and was surprised to see my old friend, the hunter and his dog at his heel. What are you doing? I asked. You weren’t due back for another few months, what’s the deal? Is everything all right? I couldn’t imagine something wrong, and if there was I couldn’t imagine him coming to me in a song.

Everything was right, everything was bright, and that’s when the coyotes started to fight.
And he said ever notice how everyone likes to hear the coyotes yell, but no one invites them in for a spell?

I pulled on my pants and pulled on my boots and we walked for awhile in the desert air. I said you always bring a chill, and he laughed and said you have no idea, and I laughed and said oh maybe I do. That’s when he looked at me and I looked back and suddenly felt myself grow a little bit slack. I gulped real hard and said, now? And he said, well maybe, or maybe not, it was all up to me. My dog’s getting old and so am I, not sure it's the right time and he said that’s fine, we can wait.

Everything was right, everything was bright, and that’s when the coyotes started to fight.
And he said ever notice how everyone likes to hear the coyotes yell, but no one invites them in for a spell?

We walked some more and he asked me about you, wondered if I’d miss you and I said sure, you would too. He didn’t say nothing about that, just shouldered his pack and gave me that smile, and said, I’ll be back in a while, how ‘bout you? Yeah, sure I guess, but I don’t know when, I wish I did but you know and my voice trailed off then. He gave a whistle I did too, his dog came running but you know mine, he’s always sniffing around for something to find.

I couldn’t follow and I couldn’t go back, the desert’s got away of getting real still and that’s when the coyotes started to fight. Ever notice how everyone likes to hear the coyotes yell, but no one invites them in for a spell? And that’s when I knew where my dog was.

You gotta watch the left as much as the right

The introductory conversation around the breakfast table always includes where ya'll from. One woman, obviously a lover of oats and groats from her overall demeanor and subdued clothes, said she was from Burlington, Vermont.

It's filled with liberals, she said. It's a great place to live.

If you're a liberal, I said. Which I'm not.

Nor am I a conservative. I, quite frankly, feel you have to watch the left as much as you watch the right in this country. I've gone from being someone who used to read three newspapers a day (and write for one on a consistant basis) to someone who really can't tell a Democrat from Republican. No one seems to represent who I am, what I'm about, and what I value. I can't stand the present administration, but can't believe that Al Gore was the best the Democrats could come up with in 2004.

I'm more prone to throw my support behind people who use their influence to help the world. Say what you want about Bono and his collosal ego, but he's trying to make the world a better place. Lance Armstrong is another one, who is leveraging his money and his fame to change the world. I'm gonna get flack on this one, but Don Imus and his ranch out west is helping little kids with cancer.

Happy Birthday from Dede

Yesterday was my birthday. I don't do birthdays very well. It's all tied up in feelings of self-worth (actually, no feelings of self-worth is the better way to say it.) I have a hard time being the recipient of love. Long story short, I don't feel I deserve it. And I've put myself in some bad situations and in with some really shitty people because I guess I felt that's the best I deserved. (You know who you are.)

Anyway, still, Dede sent me this link wishing me happy birthday from Margo, Michael, Peter, Alan Anton, Neil Young and Dede.

You're always so on spot, darling. Thank you so much...




There is a town in north Ontario,
With dreams comforts memories to spare,
and in my mind I still need a place to go,
All my changes were there,

Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise,
Big birds flying across the sky,
Throwing shadows on our eyes.

Helpless, helpless, helpless
Baby can you hear me now?
The chains are locked and tied across the door,
Baby, sing with me somehow.

Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise,
Big birds flying across the sky,
Throwing shadows on our eyes.