Tag: country
The Stranger on the Road
Ever since he’d set the barn up as a recording studio, he’d wanted a window so he could see his farm while he played. Windows not being inherently sound-deadening, it was a complication, but over time he’d hit upon a solution involving multiple layers of glass embedded in spongy soft stuff that helped reduce sound transmission.
So when the old man in the battered brown hat headed up his gravel driveway, he didn’t have to wait for the surprise of someone banging on the big barn door and messing up the track he was recording. He’d stopped playing his old Telecaster to watch as the stranger trudged up the drive, never raising his head enough to reveal his face.
But there was no banging on the door. With no windows anywhere else in the barn, he didn’t know if the old guy had gone around, or was just standing there.
Easy enough to find out.
He hung the guitar on the wall and crossed to the door, sliding the crossbar and pushing outward.
Mr. Brown Hat stepped back, blinking, obviously surprised.
“Um, hey, I’m sorry, uh, I was just . . . ” His hands wiggled around as he talked.
“Did you need something? Like, I mean, are you lost? Long way from anywhere, sir.”
The elderly gent chuckled. “I’ve been lost a long, long time, but not how you mean.” He shuffled his feet, glanced toward the road, shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I was passing, y’know, just walking down the road, and I heard the music, and, well, it drew me. I wasn’t trying to trespass, just getting closer to hear it better.”
That brought a chuckle. “You do realize that’s the shortest route to a musician’s heart, right?”
He pushed the door open wider. “If you want to listen, you might as well come in and get comfortable.”
The traveler pulled his hat off and held out his hand. “Morris. Morris Michael Miller. For which I apologize on behalf of my long-departed parents.”
“No apology necessary, Morris Michael Miller. I’m Reed. Reed Smith, most common last name in the English-speaking world, I guess.”
“There’s a reason for that, but instead of boring you with that, what if I sit down and shut up and you can play some more of that hopeful-sounding stuff you were playing.”
Reed smiled. “Hopeful? I guess the words made the music lean that way. Come on in.”
Morris found his way to one of the battered old kitchen chairs near the biggest speakers, and Reed grabbed the Tele and sat down to play.
He had no idea he’d just begun the greatest friendship of his life, nor that the stranger he’d taken in would live out the rest of his long life on the farm he’d been passing for no reason except that was where the road took him.
Biochemystery
I gave up coffee and chocolate and tea
to see if it might help me get well
10 days of headaches, kitten weak
there wasn’t any difference I could tell
so I had a cup of pricey Irish tea
it tasted like cardboard in a cup
eased my way into a pot of decaf
the icepick in my head wouldn’t give up
you think it’s logical and simple
like tuning up the engine in a car
start messing with the biochemystery
it’s glad to show you just how wrong you are
the cocktail of meds I take each day
warn about mixing them with drinking
the effects, they say, might be amplified
and yes, I know exactly what you’re thinking
make your heart rejoice with half a glass of red
but what really happens isn’t much fun
without overindulgence or waiting till the morning
take my hangover to bed, ’cause I’m done
you think it’s logical and simple
like tuning up the engine in a car
start messing with the biochemystery
it’s glad to show you just how wrong you are
when I was a kid I was skinny as a stick
distance runner, and played baseball
bought my graduation suit from the children’s section
wasn’t long until I outgrew it all
half a century I’ve been trying to eat right
I don’t drink soda; rarely touch red meat
big old salad is my favorite lunch
but biochemystery has me beat
you think it’s logical and simple
like tuning up the engine in a car
start messing with the biochemystery
it’s glad to show you just how wrong you are
The Week After That
At last night’s living room concert I gave everyone slips of paper and had them contribute song ideas: people, places, things, moods. The suggestions were
pensive
dark ages
Costa Rica
Aunt Jemima
old motorcycles
siblings
a cowboy who doesn’t like horses or cows
It pretty much wrote itself. I performed it 15 minutes after I pulled the ideas from the hat.
Lyrics
what do you do when you’re in the wrong place
in the wrong place in the wrong time?
thinking like that can ruin your breakfast
looking for reason and rhyme
roping and riding and drivin’ ’em in
is driving me out of my mind
so I’m moving on
next week I’ll be gone
the week after that I’ll fine
my sister just doesn’t get it
she doesn’t have to, she knows I’m okay
her Harley will get me to LAX
I’m flying south today
chorus
I’m off on a plane to the tropics
heading south as fast as I can
get away from those horses and smelly old cows
in Costa Rica I could work on my tan
chorus
no more bacon and eggs in the morning
Aunt Jemima’s got nothing on me
that medieval torture of saddle tramp days
is washing away in the sea
chorus
Gonna Tell You Goodbye
Yeah, I might leave any day now so y’all better watch yerselves.
One Last Sad Song
Part of the chorus got stuck in my head, and then the song wrote itself but it wrote about something a little different from what I had in mind.
Purple Sky
As much as I miss the greens and whites of northern Wisconsin, I’ve long been in love with the purple orange sunsets of the Arizona desert.
This song owes much to The Sons of the Pioneers, especially by way of Michael Nesmith’s album Tropical Campfires and the songs Moon Over the Rio Grande and Twilight on the Trail.
Run Away
Driving is one of my therapies. Though Best Beloved knows that every time I do run away, she’s coming along because that’s how it works.
We run away together a lot.
Needs a full band treatment to shine.
If I Was Ten Feet Tall
Do You Like Bacon?
The Ballad of Ed Tom Bell
Sheriff Ed Tom Bell in “No Country for Old Men” spends a lot of time talking about what’s wrong with the world, and making a lot of sense.
Please note: I’m apolitical. I see a lot wrong with the whole world, not just one country, and the ‘country’ McCarthy referred to in Bell’s monologues was the region he lived in, not a geopolitical entity. I’d hate for anyone to think I had a bone to pick with any particular person, place or thing. But if you read Cormac McCarthy, stuff like this is bound to leak back out eventually.
I intentionally sang it in too low a key to get the sound I wanted.
My Favorite Dreams
Another 6-minute wonder (that is, about 6 minutes to write.) I spent 5 of them searching in vain for one more word that rhymes with dreams, then rearranged it so I didn’t have to.
When the subject is my Best Beloved, it just isn’t that hard. I’ll never know if they’re any good because I don’t care as long as they make her smile.
All These Walls
People spend a lot of time fussing and fuming about things they can’t change. Like I used to.
I am apolitical, so this isn’t about what’s in the news, it’s about what’s in my head.
But Not Faded
you might think it’s in pretty rough shape
it’s wrinkled and tattered and torn
it’s patched up in places with old yellow tape
it’s folded and creased and well-worn
our love makes quite a picture
of the beautiful life that we share
like an old photograph, right here in my heart
but not faded; it’s just seen some wear
yeah, it’s folded in half, down the middle
stuck with tape so it don’t come apart
two smiling faces together
the two of us, joined at the heart
our love makes quite a picture
of the beautiful life that we share
like an old photograph, right here in my heart
but not faded; it’s just seen some wear
it’s with me wherever I go
though the edges are ragged and frayed
’cause it keeps getting clearer as time passes by
and I know that it won’t ever fade
our love makes quite a picture
of the beautiful life that we share
like an old photograph, right here in my heart
but not faded; it’s just seen some wear
It’s Cold Out There
I can’t go it’s way too cold out there
The wind is howling, growling like a bear
Thermometer’s gone in its shell
And I can see it’s cold as, well,
I just can’t go; it’s way too cold out there
Blizzard’s blowing snow all through the air
Drivers in this stuff ain’t got a prayer
I considered going but
I think the door is frozen shut
I can’t go it’s way too cold out there
I know it’s time for work but I don’t care
They never even notice when I’m there
They treat me like a chessboard pawn
And I feel a sick day comin’ on
I just can’t go; it’s way too cold out there
I am well aware I’ve got responsibilities
And you’ve got work from here to Timbuctu
But let’s not do it out in minus 42 degrees
Here inside it’s nice and warm with you
We can think of something else to do
Let’s sit here by the fire in my old chair
And I don’t mean to chat about Voltaire (or even Moliere)
That look I love is on your face
And I’m smokin’ like the fireplace
I just can’t go it’s way too cold out there
I’m tellin’ you it’s way too cold out there
The wind is howling, growling like a bear
Thermometer’s gone in its shell
And I can see it’s cold as, well,
I just can’t go; it’s way too cold out there
I just can’t go; it’s way too cold out there
I just can’t go; it’s way too cold out there