Tag Archives: crowds

What Was It Garcia Said?

What was it that Garcia said?

“There’ll always be those in the crowd
that want the beat and nothing more”:
repetitive, and fast and loud,
so they can dance. No need for words.

Besides, a lyric can erect
a barrier that separates
those wanting something circumspect,
who are expecting something great,
from those who simply wish to move,
who see in music an escape:
as if mere motion served to prove
a journey made from place to place.

It doesn’t matter what you say.

What message you may seek to send
is lost in murmurs to the sway
of raging hormones, in the end;

and though at times the music seems
to change the world, it’s just pretend.

We don’t share the same dreams.

08 JUN 2006

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A Song Worth Singing

“People only want to hear
the few songs that they know.”
That’s what some will tell you
drives live bands and radio:
the lowest common factor
in the drunkest, toughest crowd
who only care to listen
if it’s familiar and loud.

“People have no interest in
songs they’ve not heard before.
The same old sound is what’s been found
to get ’em past the door.
There no use playing anything
that they don’t want to hear,
because your job is not much more
than selling lots of beer.”

But hey, they’ve got a jukebox over there
that works much cheaper, and won’t really care…

If the song is worth the singing, if the words mean something strong
If the second time you hear it you might want to sing along
If the people that you’re playing for aren’t worth that something more,
Then please tell me, what am I still writing for?

“People only come to see
an entertaining show;
so that’s what we provide them,
then we pack up and we go.
Yeah, we’ll play what we want to,
someday, when our name’s in lights;
but until then, we’ll give ’em what
they think they want tonight.”

But hey, the jukebox can play all the hits;
live music’s got to have much more to it …

If the song is worth the singing, if the words mean something strong
If the second time you hear it you might want to sing along
If the people that you’re working for aren’t worth that something more,
Then please tell me, what are you still playing for?

20 MAR 2006

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Party Crowd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

27 DEC 2005

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I Don’t Do Slam

Now when I say I don’t do slam
it doesn’t mean
that I don’t dig
the meth-euphoric drenal high
that comes when words escape at Mach
and you roll like the Candy Man with those
sweet treats to clear the sleeping ears
of all those deadbeat debutantes
who crowd like mike like it was manna
say they’re gonna, makes you wanna
holler damn the poet man
street preacher speaking tongues in rhyme
but that ain’t slam, sam.

When I say I don’t do slam
it doesn’t mean that I can’t jellyroll
mainline strings of silken soothings
talk loud without saying nothing
run below the feedback radar
at the edge
of sound distortion
keep it real compared to something
shut down shambles mumble rumbling.

When I say I don’t do slam
it ain’t because I’m old and gray
and rhymes don’t flow don’t grow
testosterone and angst OD
some chosen chump to channel
all the crap you couldn’t stand to shout
I’m not the one to rock your pulpit
spin your world yourself
my axis
doesn’t equate power with volume
strokes its own ego quite nicely
whispers sermons to a choir
that knows just why
I don’t do slam.

16 MAY 2005

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On Bards of Old

Did bards of old, I wonder, ever tire
of rooting through their souls for a new verse
in order to instruct, praise or inspire
through their connection with the universe,
and after twenty years of “learn by rote”,
requiring mastery of form and feel,
the skill to recognize a tune by note,
a repertoire to make the senses reel,
and knowledge of the history and lore,
not only of their clan, but the whole world,
while at the beck and call of some great lord
who nine times out of ten, was partly churl,
requiring curses cast against their foes
or songs of praise to elevate their fame?
How often did a bard observe a rose
for just its fragrance, not speaking its name?

And when a verse or two was shared between
a group of bards that met along the road,
how often did the conversation lean
to simple things, not meter, rhyme and code?
I wonder if the burden that they shared,
the weight of culture’s future on their tongues,
was often thought a curse, even compared
unfavorably to being deaf and dumb?

They say the pen is greater than the sword,
that eloquence breaks down more doors than steel;
how treacherous that makes a life where words
are just as precious as true love, or meals.
Let modern poets suffer for their art,
imagining their angst so great and pure;
where their woe ends, the bard’s task only starts,
and leads where few may travel, or endure.
Those bards of old are gone, some may declare;
Their arts? Anachronistic and no use.
So few remain who act as if they care,
and on the struggling poet, heap abuse.
Did bards of old, I wonder, ever think
to give up, knowing that their audience,
who when given ambrosial words to drink,
gained neither wisdom or experience?

04 MAY 2005

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A School of Truth

The world is full of empty headed fools —
their courses set by half truths and whole lies —
who trust their leaders, and obey the rules,
and bow to every bright new flag that flies.

To cry “Alas!” that there are such as these
is pointless waste of energy and time.
One might as well imagine every breeze
a hurricane, each pole a desert clime.

Each seeks a level suited to their stage,
and to expect the masses to react
against their nature’s book (line, verse and page)
is to deny both illusion and fact.

In such a world, it’s difficult to keep
from thinking that some doom is close at hand.
A wise observer oft can only weep,
while knowing their tears, few will understand.

And yet, despite the cruel and senseless scenes
that seem to dominate the nightly news
(where gloried ends achieved by any means
are often praised as righteous, sacred views)

some things still retain power, and unscarred,
escape vain rhetoric’s ensnaring noose.
Despite how it may read on the cue card,
truth cannot be perverted for misuse.

Some may abuse it, twist it, change white black,
by their perversion cast it into doubt,
but some part of it, pure and strong, fights back;
and in the darkest hour, it will out.

The trick is finding what truth is in you,
that inner core that no one can corrupt.
Against that strength, no matter what they do,
all lies must end, and lying tongues, shut up.

With that accomplished, even mindless fools
may start to overcome their empty state.
A shame they don’t teach that technique in schools;
perhaps we should, before it is too late.

22 JAN 2005

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