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Tag: blues

You’ve Had the Blues

Published on March 10, 2007

If you’ve been down and out
(and you know what I’m talkin’ about)
you’ve had the blues:
if what you’ve lost and left behind
has made trouble in your mind,
and you seem to find the road under your shoes;
if you can’t get nowhere
and nobody seems to care
and your membership is nothing but the dues;
if the people that you meet
see you and then cross the street
and the cold from their eyes pierces you straight through,
you’ve had the blues.

If you’ve been on the losin’ end
(and you know what I mean, my friend)
you’ve had the blues:
if you sit awake at night
and try to make it right,
but it don’t get better either way you choose;
if you’re always on the run
from what you should and could have done,
and the past just turns today to bitter hues;
if the whiskey and the wine
just taste like dirt and turpentine
and the morning only seems to bring bad news,
you’ve had the blues.

If you’ve been run through the mill
(if you don’t know, someday you will)
you’ve had the blues:
if you’re out there all alone
with no one to call your own
and it seems until you die you’re born to lose;
if you try to see it through
but no one really cares for you,
they just smile and want to tell you what to do;
if every day is just the same,
just one more motion in the game
and you’re just killing the time until it’s through,
you’ve had the blues.

10 MAR 2007

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Don’t You Diagnose Me

Published on December 23, 2006

You know, so much of what we’re sold is happy horseshit
designed to soften our resistance to a lie:
that you are where you are because that’s right where you belong,
and your life will all get better, bye and bye.

Once you’ve swallowed that first dose, the rest don’t matter;
they’ve got you hooked on the sedation of their choice.
Big business, and the government, the churches do it too;
each one has their own soft, seductive voice.

But sometimes lately in the wee hours of the morning,
in that stretch of dawn before the nurse rolls through
I’ve found myself awake, and thinking its a big mistake
to let the system get its greedy hooks in you.

And If in the name of normalcy, you’ve got to play the part
of the blissful happy fool, then I refuse.
Just because I choose to see the glass sometimes as far from full,
Doctor, don’t you diagnose me with the blues

22 DEC 2006

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Downhome and Blue

Published on April 12, 2006

The mockingbird sitting out in the oak tree
Is trying his whole repertoire out on me:
from bluebird to chickadee,
freight train to snake in the grass.

The afternoon’s fading slow into the night
casting the back porch in dappled sunlight,
where substance and shadow each
dance while the moments go past.

Break out your banjo, that old mandolin;
I’ll pull out my guitar and count us all in.
We’ll start with some old ones
I’m sure we all know half way through.
Add in that fiddle and that tambourine;
settle in mellow. You know what I mean.
Just it flow, let it go for an hour or two…
play me some downhome and blue.

Pour you some coffee, or fresh lemonade;
find you a comfortable spot in the shade.
There’s plenty of room on the porch
if everyone wants to sprawl.

The cool of the evening won’t bother us none
once we’re warmed up and the music’s begun;
we’ll heat up the night some, all right,
having ourselves a ball.

Break out your washboard, that old pair of spoons;
I’ll pull out my dobro and start off a tune.
We’ll start with some old ones
that maybe our grandfathers’ knew.
Add in that fiddle, accordion too;
settle in mellow. You know what to do.
Just it flow, let it go for an hour or two…
play me some downhome and blue.

12 APR 2006

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Songwriter Blues

Published on March 5, 2006

A songwriter walks on the slimmest of threads
to balance what’s in his heart versus his head;
sometimes, random thoughts will inspire him to sing
words that aren’t about his life or any damned thing.

Emotions in motion, a mood for a day,
the lines on the page don’t relate any way
to the life he’s living and good things he’s found;
sometimes in the looking glass things get turned ’round.

A song’s inspiration can come from nowhere:
a phrase from a movie, the shape of a chair;
from someone singing the line as you write
imagining your song is their song tonight.

Your loved ones imagine you’re talking of them,
and take your songs personally, now and again;
they don’t understand it just don’t work that way,
and feel hurt no matter what else you can say.

Sure, my life is in every song that I write,
some more and some less, some real heavy, some light;
but I’m not my lyrics, my poems or verse.
I work in third person, for better or worse.

A song about leaving don’t mean I must go;
one that says I’m brilliant does not make it so.
I’ve got songs from good times, and others from bad,
and some drawn from thoughts someone else might have had.

A songwriter balances truth with a dream,
and finds hell and heaven, and points in between
where honkytonk angels and demons are poised
to drown out his voice with the tiniest noise.

05 MAR 2006

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Playing the Blues Again

Published on May 20, 2004

When you play the blues,
at some point,
you’ve got to decide.

Whether to play around the issue,
like Charlie Parker,
flitting in and out just hinting at the melody,
giving subtle suggestions
on the point you’re trying to make
but usually ending up burning out
to some tangent
at the far reaches
of reality;
or like B.B. King,
solid,
making up the melody as you go along,
the result of the mere fact
that your confident fingers
are making the strings move
“a little something,”
no
“exactly” like this,
creating in the moment,
at the speed of now
the counterpoint
against which the chords themselves
are measured and never found wanting.

What it comes down to,
ultimately, is what you don’t choose
to say,
the space you leave between the notes,
the way your sentences leave your lips —
like staggering, happy drunks or
like sober fools discussing semantics or
liike a kiss that promises more
a kiss, as Satchmo sang,
to build a dream on.

Of course,
there’s another decision you need to make first.
There is a juncture in your life as a Musician
(or in the Music of your living),
a crossroads to which you come
like Robert Johnson,
running from back doorstep
of one jealous cuckolding woman
to another
(lying with your eyes
while your hands are busy working
overtime)
and it’s not so much that you decide
to sell your soul to the Devil,
or pick the mistress whose cooking
is better,
even if the other’s goose
lays the golden egg.

When you’re standing at the crossroads
if you take a step in any direction
you pick from among unknowns,
strange shadows of possibility
that can only suggest.

Because faith is inhale
and doubt is exhale
part of the same flow of
stale, cigarette- and whiskey-stained air
that creeps into your clothes
and under your fingernails
stretching out your lungs in wild gasps,
the choice is not between
heaven and hell
good and evil
black and white
sanity and madness
rich and poor.

It’s about trusting yourself
even though you know you don’t
know nothing.

And that’s the secret
of playing the blues,
whether you want to tell the world about it,
or simply flash hints of the light
you’re hiding under a barrel;

either way, you make it sound
like it’s the first time
you ever played it,

but you’ve been listening
long enough
to know what to say.

20 MAY 2004

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Into Independence Blues

Published on September 6, 2003

Feelin’ in my bones I just can’t shake these lonesome blues
Standin’ at the crossroads thinkin’ either way I lose
If I leave that girl in Birmingham the fault will just be mine
But things will be no better done this time

Woke up in the station, morning breeze around my head
Standin’ at the counter wonderin’ what was left unsaid
If I tell that girl the honest truth we’ll both just end up cryin’
But things will be no better down the line

Standin’ at the station, mama, heard you call my name
Holdin’ to my ticket and dividing up the blame
Guess it makes no difference when you know you’ve got to choose
The long road into independence blues.

Feelin’ in my bones that tells me to leave her behind
But I can’t help thinkin’ she’ll be lingerin’ on my mind
If I leave that girl in Birmingham I’ll hang my head in shame
But things won’t get no better in this game

Stood there in the ticket line, now my train is pulling in
What we did and what we said keeps coming back again
If you ever think of me I hope your thoughts are kind
But either way I’ve got to keep on moving down the line.

Standin’ at the station, mama, pain inside my soul
Conductor, take my ticket, let those engines start to roll
Guess it makes no difference when there’s nothing left to choose
I’m headed into independence blues.

You might say I’m running out and trying to get free
But indecision takes its toll and it’s been killing me
So no regrets and let that whistle echo out its cry
We’ll understand it better by and by

Standin’ at the station, mama, heard you call my name
Lookin’ out my window and dividing up the blame
Guess it makes no difference if it’s right or wrong to choose
The long road into independence blues.

1998

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Highway Blues

Published on August 24, 2003

I hear the highway calling, but I will not catch a ride;
Where I’m bound and where roads lead never seem to coincide.
For interstates link places that are pretty much the same,
and each draw certain travelers, like moths drawn to a flame.

The maze of concrete that connects these places on a map
(A strange device that makes you think the world fits in your lap)
Can make your journey quicker, but that’s never been my quest;
For me, often the detour is the route I like the best.

Besides on those big four lane stretches cut across the land
It takes a certain frame of mind and quite a steady hand
To keep oneself alert while in a sedentary state;
And too, each traveler is required to keep a certain rate.

That doesn’t suit my motives, nor my wishing to explore
but gets me to and fro again, and really nothing more.
For me there is no timeline to discover where I’m bound,
And direct routes are typically not where it can be found.

I much prefer the rural route, where no dividing line
splits up the coming and the going – that path suits me fine.
If I must take the big roads, then I feel my fate is set;
Besides, often my turnoffs don’t have lighted exits yet.

The open road calls when you’re young, when you can travel light
And live on junk food, drive on fumes and stay up half the night.
But as you pass through town and city, each place starts to blend
into the next, and soon you long for that strange journey’s end.

I’ve crossed this country now four times, and each trip made it clear
That there’s no difference where you go, your past is in the mirror;
By truck or car or motorbike, weighed down or flying free,
It’s not the road that moves you on to where you want to be.

I’ve heard it said that all roads led to Rome – a source of pride;
But once arrived in that fair city, you must then decide:
Can one place be the final stop? Of this, I have some doubt;
For every avenue that comes in also leads back out.

24 AUG 2003

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