Some kinds of closure only come
in story books and movies;
real life rarely turns out quite
so neat and clean:
with one door neatly sliding open
as another firmly shuts;
such coincidence is rare
and far between.
To compress the waiting lifetime
in a moment on the screen,
or a couple hurried pages
seems obscene;
or at least, over optimistic
that the lessons to be learnt
are so obvious
as to be what they seem.
That a random chance encounter
on the escalator down
could result in an epiphany,
is rich;
just more pablum for the masses
who believe in self-help classes
and still fail to understand
that life’s a bitch.
Or that centuries of training
can be quickly overcome,
unspoken prejudice and hatred
swept aside;
just as likely as a fear
of heights or sense of isolation
can be vanquished
by a kiss, or airplane ride.
Some kinds of closure never come
at all, except in bits
and pieces you pick up
each new day:
once you learn your profound losses
are the only thing you own,
and you wouldn’t have it
any other way.
19 SEP 2006
Leave a CommentI know you want me to say
I love you in some tired cliche:
forever in a bright pink bow
with Hallmark lines I ought to know;
and when I speak, some hidden strings
should start to play. It should be Spring;
then as the moonlight filters through
the clouds, you’ll know that I love you.
Well, our life isn’t like TV,
and that Prince Charming isn’t me:
a handsome, careless perfect fool
who’s crown is missing just your jewel,
and when I speak, the words I choose
may be too rough, and be misused;
but when you hear, you’ll understand
that I deserve to be your man.
That’s all that I have, not anything more
If that’s not enough, I’ll walk out that door
’cause if me pretending is what you long for
it’s not me you’re after; and all that’s in store
is no happy ending, no fairy tale glow,
just holding to dreams, when we ought to let go.
I know you want me to be
more like your girlhood fantasy:
forever on a big white horse
prepared to face some dragon’s force;
and when I come back from the wars
your love alone will soothe my sores;
then we will break the magic spell
that made the past a living hell.
Well, our life’s not a storybook;
no golden apples can be shook
from that old tree in our front yard,
the future’s certain to be hard.
But this I promise you, my dear:
It’s not loneliness you should fear;
‘Cause I’ll be here to see it through:
to me, that’s saying I love you.
That’s all that I have, not anything more
If that’s not enough, I’ll walk out that door
’cause if me pretending is what you long for
it’s not me you’re after; and all that’s in store
is no happy ending, no fairy tale glow,
just holding to dreams, when we ought to let go.
03 JAN 2005
Leave a CommentOK, there’s a joke that runs something like this:
Q: If a hen and a half can lay an egg and a half in a day and a half, why is a cat like a sidewalk?
A: Because neither one of them can play the piano, of course.
In other words, life is often a scintillating series of surreal non sequiturs, and to the untrained, or unobservant eye, can seem to be nothing more than random, chaotic events.
Which brings me to my point of the day:
If you have never lived in the country, or have some actual genealogical ties to rural America, or at a minimum lived in proximity to the large masses of flyover country that border upon rural America, how authentic is your country music? If you don’t know at least one farmer, let’s say, or cowboy or rancher or sharecropper or cross-country truck driver or redneck-hillbilly-cracker-coonass-mudbug-hick, and you’re not or haven’t ever been one of the previous, how authentic can your expression of traditional rural music be?
It’s one thing to exploit the milieu of a musical form, either in novelty or parody or insult. And it’s another to pay tribute to a musical form that speaks to your heart or mind. To me, the majority of Americana artists out there today, particularly those who are considered alt.country, fall into one of these two camps. They’ve never seen a cow, or been beyond the Holland Tunnel, or traveled outside of a comfortable cellphone service area. Like today’s punks, who can buy suits off the shelf on Melrose Avenue that have been ripped apart and safety pinned back together, they may buy clothes at Walmart or thrift stores but it’s not because they HAVE to. It’s because they are trying to portray a certain kind of image — the kind that Old Navy with it’s brand new “trucker” hats and Hot Topic with its pressed and freshly embossed Clash t-shirts — an image that is not who THEY are. It’s somebody else’s dream (or considering the plight of the average farmer/truck driver, somebody else’s nightmare). The truth is this: nobody who HAS to work in a shirt with their name on it really WANTS that kind of job. It’s not cool to be covered in grease, or coal black, or road dust, or chicken feathers or cowshit. It’s not cool to be looked down on by the vulture doctors and lawyers who infest small towns and use up three quarters of the phone book preying on their aging, gullible and high-risk-for-accident neighbors. It’s not cool to speak with a drawl on a visit to New York and immediately be thought a moron or retarded, even though your IQ may be at least 20 points higher than the fast-talking, sharp-dressed go-getter who shoved their way in front of you in line at Starbucks.
As I’ve said before, part of the problem is that country music CANNOT be country music and have national significance. It is regional. Cajun music, while perhaps appreciated in Maine, is of both greater import and viriliity in Louisiana. What plays in Mecklenburg shouldn’t be the same as what plays in Bakersfield, unless somebody from one is on tour in the other. Not to say that there shouldn’t be cross-pollenization, or that one style can’t learn from another. But what should be most important to country music fans should be LOCAL music first. And live music, at that.
It’s about interpretation, filtered through experience, tempered by environment, forged by connection.
Or it ain’t country music. It’s, to paraphrase Johnny Cash, Nashville trying to sell records to folks who buy cowboy boots in New York City.
Leave a CommentShe’s no human interest story
torn from some eighteen point headline in the times;
she offers no redemption or salvation
to the readers of these lines,
like those miles that you fly over
as you run from one place to the next:
just as likely to get ridicule
as an ounce of understanding or respect.
But she is a friend of mine:
about half sinner and half saint;
and over the time we’ve shared
I can say I’ve no complaints.
Not trying to prove herself
to anyone, including me;
just living the best she can,
starring in my reality.
She’s not fodder for the tabloids,
the dark underbelly of some fallen star;
she offers no cash value or big prize,
no dream vacation or new car,
just a moment among millions
lost in the unending carnival of time:
just as likely to be overlooked
as noticed in the express grocery line.
But she is a friend of mine:
about half sour, the other sweet;
and in the balance that’s somehow struck,
I can say my life’s complete.
Not trying to change herself
for anyone, including me;
just living the best she can,
starring in my reality.
She’s no drama queen or actress
cast against type to improve a Nielson share;
she doesn’t seek the spotlight
or spend all her time imagining it’s there.
Just one more grown-up girl from Stonewall,
who’s been out beyond the dark edges of town
and found what makes life worth living:
growing through both up and down.
And she is a friend of mine:
about half crazy, and half sane;
that fits the way I am completely,
I have no reason to complain.
Not trying to prove her worth
to anyone, including me;
just being the one I want
starring in my reality.
27 NOV 2005
Leave a CommentReal country music is not defined by its performers, recording studios or media labels. It is not a style of music so much as it is the embodiment of a way of life.
Real country music’s appeal is universal because it is at its heart uniquely and profoundly personal.
Real country music is always more applicable regionally or geographically than nationally or internationally. Without each region having its own local flavor and style, country music as we know it would never have been birthed, or evolved.
As a result, real country music may require a commitment of the entire heart, sound and mind of its writers, singers, musicians and listeners. That is because they do not define country music. It defines them.
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