Walking, talking

The image says it all.
You’re on your own, no one is coming to save you.
No Holy Man, no Hero.
No Pleiadians from the stars.
No one is coming to save you,
you only have yourself.
Your wits, your skills, perhaps a bit of luck
that you’ve gained along the way.
You have a choice at your ending,
on your feet, or on your knees.

Perhaps you’ve already made the choice,
or accepted the choice taken from you.

photo: unknown

These dance hall girls, they’ll treat you kind,
They’ll give you their bodies, but you’ll never touch their minds.
They’ll fill you up with lipstick lies,
Then they’ll put you down, son
Don’t be surprised…

I held her mountains, I kissed her plains.
I held her sunshine, Lord then I drank her rains…

Tom Russell, again…

It was some years long back, in Hereford, Texas.  Out in the Llano. A little Mexican cafe filled with cattlemen, across the road from a feedlot.  Standing alone atop a huge feedlot dungpile, a Black steer looked out over the pipe rail fencing to the lands beyond.  I sat in the cafe wondering if that Black steer was daydreaming of freedom, of if he thought himself free.  One or the other, it didn’t matter.  The abattoir awaited.

The Woman sat next to me as we pulled out of the cafe parking lot and drove out into the Llano.  The cab of that old pickup filled with the aromas of Mexican spice, and her sweat.  The eroticism of that filled the landscape.    To say that I didn’t miss her still would be to put a lie to it all.

(there is a divining complexity to that scene, you see)

‘Crazy with love, Enamorado!
Alone out on the Llano Estacado…’

   (more of Tom Russell…it’s just that mood)

Driving a high desert night. Just driving, nowhere to go.  The big truck is humming, Tom Russell is singing low on the player, songs of love and loss.  Songs of the deserts and mountains, outlaws and death.

And old Winchester levergun is propped between the seats, the red Cattle Dog asleep on the back bench seat.  Just driving. A fine, light rain.  I’m thinking of a woman.  Rather, I’m thinking of looking for a woman through women.  Years of it.  You may know what I mean.  Tom Russell singing of gain and loss.

A Nighthawk swoops in front of the truck, riding the headlight beams out into the wet night, then disappears.

The red dog stirs in his sleep, swaps ends, then settles back into dream.

I’m visited in my dreams by people I don’t know, mostly.  They tell me things, show things.  Some things, I don’t want to know.  There is anticipation, falling into dream.  Our other lives, perhaps more real than this one.  Other lives forgotten when we ‘wake’.  The dream upon waking, the waking dream.  I’ve had many.

Tom Russell singing of a Mexican Vaquero, Isadore Gonzales, who died in England, then flew as a Raven back to his home in Monterrey.  I smile at the knowing of it.

Driving the high desert night rain, thinking of a woman.

That’s Patsy Cline up there. Sweet weeping Jesus that woman could sing!
It seems a night for nostalgia, listening to old songs. The really good ones really never grow old, though. Patsy’s will live forever.
Ray Price is up on the player just now. What a voice. ‘Faded Love’.
Lately, I’ve been paying more attention to Bobbie Gentry. (I can hear it now…Bobbie Gentry…wtf?) Ya know, I think she was very underrated. If you can find it, listen to her ‘Delta Sweete’ album. Really listen to it. Listen to what she does with ‘Big Boss Man’, then compare it with, say, PigPen McKernan’s take. (and no shade cast on PigPen is intended, by any means) There’s a lot to Bobbie Gentry, complexity, nuance. Subtlety and not so subtle at all at times. If memory serves, Tyler Mahan Coe did a profile of her a couple years ago. If it interests you, take a swing over to Coe’s site (Cocaine and Rhinestones) and look for her in the archives of season one.
So, we’ve got Patsy Cline, Ray Price and Bobbie Gentry. Who else should we stack on the player tonite? How about some Mose Allison? The Tippo, Mississippi jazz/bluesman. (isn’t Bobbie Gentry from around there, too? I think so. all that great Delta music…!) Yeah, let’s put on some Mose Allison. How about we follow that up with some Chet Baker…’Let’s Get Lost’. Chet wasn’t from the Delta, he was an Okie.
I’ll leave it to you, to finish off the nostalgia evening. Whatever may suit you. Wherever memories may take you. As for me, there are just a few more heartbreak songs I think I’ll delve into. Old as I am, a few of those hit home.

“I’ve Got A New Heartache”

You’re back in town again spreadin’ talk around
That I’m still in love with you though you let me down
I hate to admit it but I guess the talk is true
Or else you couldn’t make my heart ache the way you do

I’ve got a new heartache about an old sweetheart
That left me for somebody new
I’ve got a new heartache about an old sweetheart
And that’s why I’m feeling so blue

Why did you turn up again? I was doing fine
I’d found another sweetheart to drive you from my mind
I thought that I’d forgotten you but I know that it’s not true
Or else you couldn’t make my heart ache the way you do

I’ve got a new heartache about an old sweetheart
That left me for somebody new
I’ve got a new heartache about an old sweetheart
And that’s why I’m feeling so blue

Ray Price / Wayne Walker

‘Down south in New Orleans…prettiest girls I’ve ever seen…’

Just ’cause I’s in the mood for Southern cookin’…pork chops & apples, black eye peas and cornbread. That was a good dinner (we say dinner, not supper). It’s a good day. And then, there was this;

An old Kustom Quad 65dfx, in great shape and inexpensive to boot. Being weak willed when it comes to old gear, I made it mine. 65 watts and a big ol’ honkin’ vintage 12 inch Celestion speaker. My lord, that thing puts out, that Big Mariah. Hit a good bass note and your groin quivers and aches. Needless to say, it’s a keeper.
These old Kustoms were fairly popular back in the old days. Well, the big tuck & roll sparkly naugahyde models were rather popular with the rock guys, countrymen favored these more subdued offerings. John Fogerty used the big tuck & rolls, the Dead used them early on. Bunch of other folks. Johnny Cash favored the black Tolex models.
Anyway…
In an earlier post I wrote that I was digging in, starting over. Getting down to the root of things note by note. True, and some things have been put together that I’m reasonably pleased with. However, I wanted to go even deeper. Now it’s down to note by note on one string only. My, my. It’s like a door opening. Seeing the neck in a new light, learning things about myself, and not just as a player. (vanity only extends so far and I haven’t the gall to call myself a guitarista, much less a musician. ‘player’ puts it nicely.)
A copy of ‘The Advancing Guitarist’ (see parenthesis above) by Mick Goodrick was recently had, and the very first section was on just this very matter. I had been aware of the concept before, but never put it into practice. Many bad habits have been collected over the decades. Ahhh, yes. Vanity. Vanity can be crippling, you know. The Dark Ego. If you play guitar (as if anyone reads here…), you might want to have a look at Goodrick’s book. It can be maddening and frustrating and extremely valuable, as he puts it all back on you to find out for yourself what you’re all about. Find your own notes, patterns. He offers you the opportunity to think, to do the work. To discover yourself in the instrument (the instrument is you).
Before we veer off too far into the woo-woo weeds, it’s probably time to close this little ditty off, head to the refrigerator for some strawberry ice cream, then continue with the search for the ‘self notes’, if you will.

‘Hello, Mary Lou. Hello, Miss Pearl…’ (Dylan, ‘False Prophet’)

Everything that needs doing can be done with these two.

Now deep in the heart of a lonely kid
Who suffered so much for what he did
They gave this ploughboy his fortune and fame
Since that day he ain’t been the same

See the man with the stage fright
Just standin’ up there to give it all his might
And he got caught in the spotlight
But when we get to the end
He wants to start all over again

I’ve got fire water right on my breath
And the doctor warned me I might catch a death
Said, “You can make it in your disguise
Just never show the fear that’s in your eyes”

‘Stage Fright’

How much is that Tele in the window?

It started innocently enough, just a trip into town to visit my friend at Gray Dog Guitars. There she was in the window, a nice Telecaster. Not just any Tele, though. This one was a Washburn Laredo LT92 Tele from the Custom Shop in Chicago. One piece Swamp Ash body, the old style solid maple neck with the skunk stripe. Clearcoat on the body, real nice grain. Matte neck finish. Grover tuners, Duncan Broadcaster pickups, bone nut, Wilkinson bridge…the works. Oh my! Hello Trouble, Beautiful Trouble. She left the Chicago Custom Shop in November of 1993, and I don’t know her travels after that, but she looks pristine. Still had the hang tags and factory literature in the case. My god. Nine hundred and ninety nine dollars was her price in 1993, about twenty one hundred in today’s money. It took some horse trading, but she came home with me, and what a wonderful beauty she is! Plays like a dream. Run her through a Fender Blackface with just a bit of gain and a touch reverb and she rings like a bell.

And so, the ‘digging in’ deal is getting back to my roots (at this advanced age). The photo above is of my hometown back in Texas. Texas. For so long I’ve shunned it, but for better or worse that little blackland North Texas town is what molded me, and music is a big part of that. The music spun me out into the world, up to Manhattan and beyond. Now it’s full circle.
The last few days have been nothing but playing this beauty (that, and walking with the ever faithful Aussie Cattle Dog out in the timbers). A couple of things are being composed, just simple, earthy things. Old school. Roots. My roots. Digging down into that rich blackdirt, the emotions, memories, colors, smells and events. Blues, Country, Rock n Roll. Doing it all note by note, color by color, doing it by ear. What notes call up what memories. John Fahey once advised to forget all theory and just do it by ear, and that’s what I’m doing. Making it mine.

It’s somewhat odd that the catalyst for all this is that wonderful old Washburn Tele, but it is what it is. She called me and I answered. Hello Trouble, Beautiful Trouble. (that’s from a song by Tom Russell, out of El Paso, Texas) And it all feels good. Really good. Beautiful trouble.

They were driving the night on an empty two lane, down in the Borderlands.  There was the whine of the road, and the stream of music from the green glow of the dashboard.  Old songs, mostly, that he had collected over the years.  Songs and memories, some true and some not.

‘Who ARE you?’ she turned and asked him.

‘Just a man.  No one special.’

‘You must have been special to someone.’ she said.

‘Maybe.  One or two. How about you?  Who are you special to?’ he asked.

She shifted in the seat, took one of his cigarettes from the console between them.  She flicked it alight, blew a theater of smoke.  ‘More than a few.’  Her answer had the blood of disdain in it.  She looked out the window into the night.

They were quiet for a time.  There was the whine of the road, the music, the muffled sound of the truck engine.  It began a light rain and the air filled with the smell of desert. Creosote, sage.  Thirsty dirt and the wet air.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked him eventually.  He was aware of the strain of her thigh against her jeans.  He thought of her as a mystery.  A mystery like that of an animal that one can never know.  He wondered if women thought men as mysteries.  Probably not.

‘I don’t know’, he said.  ‘No place in particular.  Somewhere out there.’ he pointed with his chin out the windshield.  ‘Not back there’. He jerked his head slightly back, out behind the truck.  ‘And you? Where are you going?’

‘I’m going with you’ she said flatly.

And they drove on into the night, the headlights making their futile stab into the darkness.  They made each other up as they drove along.  Made themselves up.  Some of it was true, some not.  In their makings they would be different people from who they might have been yesterday.  After this night, they would be different people yet, in the sunrise.  There was the whine of the road, the stream of old songs, and the memories of who they were, and were not.

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw – I could not bring
My passions from a common spring –
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone –
And all I lov’d – I lov’d alone —
Then – in my childhood – in the dawn
Of a most stormy life – was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still –
From the torrent, or the fountain –
From the red cliff of the mountain –
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold –
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by –
From the thunder, and the storm –
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view –

EDGAR ALLAN POE

Oh, misty eye of the mountain below
Keep careful watch of my brothers’ souls
And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke
Keep watching over Durin’s sons

If this is to end in fire
Then we should all burn together
Watch the flames climb high into the night

Calling out father oh
Stand by and we will
Watch the flames burn auburn on
The mountain side

And if we should die tonight
Then we should all die together
Raise a glass of wine for the last time

Calling out father oh
Prepare as we will
Watch the flames burn auburn on
The mountain side
Desolation comes upon the sky

Now I see fire
Inside the mountain
I see fire
Burning the trees
And I see fire
Hollowing souls
I see fire
Blood in the breeze
And I hope that you remember me

Oh, should my people fall
Then surely I’ll do the same
Confined in mountain halls
We got too close to the flame

Calling out father oh
Hold fast and we will
Watch the flames burn auburn on
The mountain side
Desolation comes upon the sky

Now I see fire
Inside the mountain
I see fire
Burning the trees
I see fire
Hollowing souls
I see fire
Blood in the breeze
And I hope that you remember me

And if the night is burning
I will cover my eyes
For if the dark returns
Then my brothers will die
And as the sky is falling down
It crashed into this lonely town
And with that shadow upon the ground
I hear my people screaming out

Now I see fire
Inside the mountains
I see fire
Burning the trees
I see fire
Hollowing souls
I see fire
Blood in the breeze

I see fire (oh you know I saw a city burning out) (fire)
And I see fire (feel the heat upon my skin, yeah) (fire)
And I see fire (uh-uh-uh-uh) (fire)
And I see fire burn auburn on the mountain side

Ed Sheeran

“Because while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn’t there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission.

How did this happen? Who’s to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again truth be told, if you’re looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror. I know why you did it. I know you were afraid. Who wouldn’t be? War, terror, disease. There were a myriad of problems which conspired to corrupt your reason and rob you of your common sense.” ― Alan Moore, V for Vendetta

“Long before morning I knew that what I was seeking to discover was a thing I’d always known. That all courage was a form of constancy.  That it is always himself that the coward abandoned first. After this all other betrayals come easily”
Cormac McCarthy

   More snow.  About a foot this time.  Getting a little tired of snow, but it’ll come until May month up here in the timbers.  No matter, the wood stove’s humming along nicely, there’s a hot pot of coffee, plenty of food.  Doing a little playing on that Gretsch beauty pictured above.  Really liking this guitar.  Old Tom Rush on the player.  Nobody today seems to remember Tom Rush, a sixties folkie, but I remember him well.  Tom’s singing ‘Urge For Going’ just now, an old Joni Mitchell tune.
If you want some old Tom Rush, you can find some HERE and  HERE.  ‘No Regrets’, guess that about sums it up.  Life’s good, it is what it is.  What a fortunate time to be alive.
Old folkie music. Jeez, the memories. Karen Dalton anyone?  How about Fred Neil?
Karen Dalton, haunting, beautiful.  Could listen to her for months on end.  She was born in Bonham, Texas, a little town I know very, very well.  My family goes back many long generations in that town.  Could be some stories from there at another time, or maybe never.  Anyway, go look up Karen Dalton for yourself, listen to her, read about her.  You’ll get the idea.

that’s Karen on the left, Suze Rotolo, Teri Thal, Dave Van Ronk, and Bob Dylan in front, walking down Hudson Street, NYC, 1963
photo by Jim Marshall
I  once lived down the street a few blocks, on LeRoy & 7th. Bonham, Texas to Greenwich Village, a long, strange trip it was.