Bye, Ray

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/ray-collins-original-mothers-of-invention-singer-dead-of-heart-attack-20121227



(not to be confused with Lieutenant Tragg)

The Chatter and The Noise

An Along Came Jones studio recording: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5f9ATPbocDw

 

Happy birthday Jymn!  Let it flow with you.

F-hole

My wife

            with the dimple on her scrollwork

            with the smell of spruce and rosin

            the small of her back that vibrates

            as gently as a sound post

And her little f-hole

My wife

            her tongue a run of eighth notes

            arpeggio eyelashes

            allegretto fingers

her thighs two even half notes

And her little f-hole

           

And from somewhere within her

There beats a hidden metronome

A rhythm that I can’t quite capture

The ocean, my own secret home

My wife

her breasts a bit rubato

her navel a fermata

her cleft is like the moment

            between the up-bow and the down-bow

And her little f-hole

With thanks to Man Ray and André Breton's "L'Union Libre"

Let me be the first

To wish you happy birthday, Johny.
It's just past midnight in the departure lounge. Was hoping to write you a rhyme about all the gifts I wish you had, or I had to give you, or you had to get, but inspiration fails. So I'll settle for taking advantage of living half a day ahead of you to wish you all the best, first.
Love

On Martyrs

Here's what I ended up with, Jim:

When I think of my love for you

It’s like staring right into the sun

Maybe we only really see

When the story’s finished up and done

Loving you is as bottomless

As a dark infinity

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

My heart’s spitted on a stake

Burning with a clear, undying flame

Ashes rise up into the air

Spelling out the letters of your name

Oh you are my true lode star

You’re my only destiny

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

Poor old Saint Bartholomew had his

Skin flayed off him while he lived

Anthony was stabbed so many times

That he started leaking like a sieve

Saints embrace their suffering
And that suff’ring makes them free

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

One Roll of the Dice ...

RIP Mister Wilson

http://www.stjohnscollege.edu/news/memoriam-wilson.shtml

RIP Lol Coxhill

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jul/11/lol-coxhill

The Devil Took My Woman

Dennis suggested the title, Euripides suggested the rest.  Μωροσ γαρ μορα λεγει.

The devil took my woman

Rose before the dawn

Flew out to a hilltop

As her spirit filled up

She tore a fawn to pieces

And made a fleece of

That little fawn

The devil held a wolf pup

To my woman’s breast

She just calmly smiled

Thought it was her child

She nursed a bear

Snakes in her hair

Loose and untressed

The devil took my woman

He gave her the power

As a fortune-teller

Blind as Helen Keller

Strumming on a lyre

With a bolt of fire

He broke my tower

Then the devil took me

Turned me to a goat

Well, up came the priestess

Wearing a meat dress

Like a housewife

She grabbed a stone knife

And slit my throat

This is true: I had eggs today with Michael Coss and young Mike Junior.  He remains a king among men, if that needs saying.

We're all swinging and we're all satisfied.  Happy birthday, Poppa!

My Lonesome Cowboy Shirt, Reekin' at Ya

I'm Just Glad It's Not Christmas

My recollection is that Jimmy wrote a song called "Christmas Is Laughing At You", though all I remember is that title.  I know one of his finest post-FF songs is called "The Last Day of Christmas".  

Oh poor George, father of his country

He lost his day, to speak quite bluntly

He shares with forty other guys

And there’s no longer cherry pie

Mostly sales at used car dealers

Selling ATV four-wheelers

But I can smile and half-pretend

I’ve got big plans for the weekend

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

With the presents round the tree

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

This is not the way Christmas should be

Father’s Day is not so bad

All I do is call up Dad

We don’t have to talk too much

It’s just nice to stay in touch

So we talk about the Knicks

Or (very lightly) politics

Dad’s had his heartbreak, I don’t doubt it

But we never talk about it

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

With the mistletoe and the holly

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

‘Tis no season to be melancholy

Memorial Day’s for what’s been lost

And how we live and what’s the cost

We don’t like to think about the past

Or why the flags are at half-mast

And I, like any normal Yank,

Would rather leave the past a blank

And not think much about what’s dead
Pretend there’s better times ahead

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

With Santa Claus and all his little elves

I’m just glad it’s not Christmas

Cause I can’t stand to be all by myself

Mister Bluebird

We're planning to release this as a 7".  I had imagined Nick Lowe singing it when I wrote the lyrics: Mister Bluebird link

After All These Years...

Bat Chain Puller has finally been released.

http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/16625-bat-chain-puller/

Eye Sore

I do believe today is Perfesser Ghiberti's birthday.  Happy birthday, Bugsy--may you rule beneficently over Geneva for many years to come.

Pachuco Cadaver, the Beefheart tribute band that's been about to start for the last year and a half, will make its debut as part of a (post-) Mother's Day Zappa Tribute at the Bay View Boat Club tomorrow.  We'll be playing "Harry Irene", "Candle Mambo" and "I'm Gonna Booglarize You Baby".

You & Me & Suzanne

We were the Three Musketeers:

            You and me and Suzanne

We were punk rock cavaliers

            You and me and Suzanne

Now there will be no such antics

Suzanne’s no longer a romantic

She’s more like a Lars von Trier

            Oh, you and me and Suzanne

We were like those Stooges Three

            You and me and Suzanne

On an endless, madcap spree

            You and me and Suzanne

I was Curly, she was Moe

You’re too sweet for Larry, though

That’s the way things used to be

            With you and me and Suzanne

We were once the best of friends

            You and me and Suzanne

Funny it came to an end

            You and me and Suzanne

But she lost you to another

That she thought of as her brother

Did she know you still like men?

            You and me and Suzanne

I guess I thought that I was just joking

            You and me and Suzanne

But it’s over, completely broken

            You and me and Suzanne

It was wrong, but I still did it

I’m an asshole, I admit it

The morning’s cold and we’ve awoken

            You and me and Suzanne

Saint John's has a new fight song:

True love of wisdom is sheltered in her halls
Seekers of virtue will answer to her call
Books and a balance are all the tools we need
St. John’s forever! She will make us free.


I was working on one myself, which I did not submit:

Saint John's forever
To her we pledge our youth
Steadfast are we in our
Grand pursuit for truth

Our search for wisdom
Surely cannot fail
Lovers of wisdom
We will always prevail

Here's a link to a couple of songs performed live last month.  It's just a cassette in-the-room recording, so the mix isn't all it could be.

Beatitudes

Blessèd are the poor in spirit
The end is near but they don’t fear it
Blessèd are the broken hearted
Now that all the madness has started

Bless’d are those who dare increase
The slender hope there may be peace
Bless’d are those who show some kindness
In a world so often mindless

Blessèd are all those who hunger
For justice in a world gone under
And blessèd are all those who mourn
May their hopes somehow be reborn

May the weary too be bless’d
May they somehow find their rest
And may the weakest ones be bless’d
When it’s done, they’ll inherit this mess

A blues in the Highway 61 style.  Since Dennis will be singing it and I don't like to drive, I wrote myself in riding shotgun.


I went down with the Moron, headed for the border
Searching for a cure for his sleeping disorder
Since he had the narcolepsy
I shot him a Pepsi right away
He opened his eyes and said where are we?
Aaaaaaah, wrong way!

Well we saw a couple hitchhikers, so we pulled over
Turned out that it was Marguerite and Casanova
He had powdered wig
He was late to his gig as DJ
We turned on Camino Real
Aaaaaaah, wrong way!

Well I saw a marble lady who exposed her breast
They locked her away, I suppose it’s for the best
They said save your quarters
You can afford a Doris Day
I tried to pay with Green Stamps
Aaaaaaah, wrong way

I met a man who said he’d lost his youth
To Marsden Hartley and to Charles Demuth
He said, Behold!
I saw the figure 5 in gold on display
Wheels rumbling through the dark city
Aaaaaaah, wrong way!

Mother Theresa met the Dalai Lama
He said to her let me tell you mama
In my horoscope
It said I will be the pope one day
But saints won’t give you nothing
Aaaaaaah, wrong way

Well I guess we took a wrong turn back at Albuquerque
The Moron said can you take me back to Berkeley
I just told him phooey
And I made a U-ie mid-highway
I don’t know if we’ll make it
Aaaaaaah, wrong way

Sister Odetta de Crécy

Robert Wyatt Interview

This is a great interview on Pitchfork in which Robert Wyatt talks about his favorite albums through the years. Guess what he listened to when he was five.

http://pitchfork.com/features/5-10-15-20/8776-robert-wyatt/

He sure does look great for 67!

Purim Spiel

I asked her, “Would you come down
Wearing nothing but your crown?
Sing for me and then I’ll make you kneel”
She thought it just the worst abuse
To send her naked to the noose
But really it was just a Purim Spiel

I’m not sure just who you are
Your light shines like the Morning Star
Shadowing far more than you reveal
Let’s be lovers, let’s be cousins
It sort of makes sense, mostly doesn’t
These are just roles in this Purim Spiel

The clown in the three-cornered hat
Who planned and plotted like a rat
Only serves to make us laugh and squeal
And yet like him we have our dream
Of making adversaries scream
Oh relax, it’s just a Purim Spiel

He made a bargain with the king
Who signed it with his signet ring
For ten thousand bucks they had a deal
I didn’t bow down at the gate
Which of us more filled with hate?
Oh just watch, enjoy the Purim Spiel

Two goats stand before the priest
One gets killed and one released
Like the twin who grabbed his brother’s heel
Blessings, curses, both the same
Roll the dice, it’s just a game
That we play and call our Purim Spiel

So which is you and which am I?
Haman, Esther, Mordecai
Tell me what’s a mask and what is real
Come, let’s give each other treats
Things concealed in little sweets
Live it up, today’s our Purim Spiel

We, The Sons of Bryce Jacobsen

It looks like the old alma mater is looking for a gym teacher

There is a place without music
A place of quiet and rest
There’s a place with no words
A place for the bless’d.

And yet dear Lord I love this world
Its troubles and its joys
O sinner that I am I love
The blather and the noise

Once you cross the river
There can be no violence
No word or sound can ever break
The beauty of the silence

And yet dear Lord I love this world
Its troubles and its joys
O sinner that I am I love
The blather and the noise

There’s a beautiful garden
Where the wind never blows
And the flame that burns there
Can’t consume the rose

And yet dear Lord &c.