Anthracite. I was living in Boston in August of`1976 (great place to be for the Bicentennial). Gruesome stories were not the norm on the national news, at least not to extent that they seem to have become. So I paid attention when Sunbury, Pa., was in the headlines; Sunbury is just south of the town in which I grew up. There had been a murder. A young woman was dead and a couple/few guys had been caught trying to buy a large amount of hydrochloric acid at a local pharmacy, apparently with the intent of making her body disappear up on a slag heap somewhere.
I’m not from a mining town, but these were my neighbors none the less. The coal region was making the rust belt look like chrome. This song rolled out pretty much in one draft
The harmonies were sung by Tom Rosencrans, Jina Gillis Rosencrans, and Kim Reichley.
Hurricane Brewing in the Caroline. October 1976, in Boston. I really have no memory of making this one up, but I’ve been singing it ever since. Obviously it was after Hurricane Agnes (1972) wiped out a lot of Central Pa.
Originally Joey played bass when I’d perform it, but switching him over to the guitar was a good move. Kimbo plays bass and Steve Mitchell is on drums.
I Heard the Geese. 1973, Lewisburg, Pa. This song had two verses in the middle that needed to be replaced with one better verse. At my grandmother’s wake in Slidell, Louisiana many years later, someone asked me to sing something. I solicited suggestions, and my mother didn’t hesitate in suggesting I Heard the Geese. Not enough years later, I sang it at the memorial service for Mom. Kimbo added some sweet mandolin.
An original rough take jumped out so strongly at Steve Mitchell – I think this song was what got him on board to record with me in the first place. For that, I am grateful.
Always Will. maybe 2011? In Watsontown. The basic guitar lick (which is just a world of fun to play) had been part of my noodling catalog for many years. I guess if you play something long enough on the guitar, it expands into a song. Overdubbing the electric guitar part was not difficult. Those notes made themselves evident the night before recording, and I didn’t argue with them.
I should mention, however, that the basic premise of the song is that once you have loved someone, that’s it. You will always love them. Doesn’t matter what they do or did. You can even roar with hatred or bow your head in disgust. Once you’ve loved them, you will always love them. No way out of it.
I heard this beautifully articulated by Jimmy Webb during a memorable interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air many years ago. And yeah, the line about the moon being a mistress (though not a harsh one) is a modest homage to JW.
Knee Deep in the River. This is a song for my brother Kit, who lived in exile for ten years. When the wonderful Jimmy Carter pardoned the Vietnam era draft resistors, we reunited in Pennsylvania and spent the first night wandering around old haunts, winding up standing on (in) the eel dam, watching the sunrise from the Susquehanna. I love the way Steve and Kimbo roll in.
Salt Water June, 1975, in Lewisburg. Hot summer nights fraught with JJ Cale. For this recording I encouraged everyone to work a bit outside the expected. Joey just blistered the thing while Steve and Kimbo were deep in the pocket.
Got to Be a Dancer. The heart of one winter or another (early 1980’s) in Winooski, Vermont. My father had sent me a poem of his titled Winter Possibilities. It is in his first collection of verse, The Impossible Reaches. It arrived in the mail, quite probably the same day I first heard Frank Zappa’s Watermelon in Easter Hay. These two works were melded into Got to Be a Dancer. Steve takes marvelous liberties with the percussion. That’s one of the many reasons we love him.
Pledging Myself to You I made this one up on October 11, 1983, in Winooski, Vermont. I have no memory of doing so. Judging by the date, I had met my eventually-to-be wife Kate by then, but marriage must have been a subliminal concept at that moment. I think. Kimbo and Steve assist greatly in keeping it rolling.
When the Time Comes was made up in 1972 after Hurricane Agnes (the same one that blew Uncle Jack down to Louisiana). I was living in Pennsylvania. That’s about all I remember. It’s in Open G tuning with a capo somewhere up the neck. I think Steve’s hand drums are simply perfect.
Doing Its Best came along on December 5, 1975, in Allston, Mass. I always like doing this one with a room full of folks who are of a mind to SING. And harmonize. It’s in Open G, though I sometimes tune the guitar down a bit. Working this out with Kimbo, Tom, and Jina was a huge amount of fun. Steve is playing percussion. For working purposes, I recorded the break on a keyboard, as filler. It sounded pretty nice, but in the long run I doubled the part on electric guitar, seriously cranked and distorting, but pulled way back to keep the tone but lose some volume
Home Safe. Probably 2014/15, in Watsontown. We had a lot of hospice going on around us at the time, and this song is thoroughly entwined with that bubbling kettle full of everything going on. AND it was the first time I lifted a line from my son Penn (“I’m going to punish gravity. I’m going to make something fly.”) I mean, who could resist? It’s in Open G, and it was wonderfully covered by my dear friend Bruce Milne. When we recorded this, we decided to keep it sparse.
Sing Me to Sleep. Don’t recall where or when this popped out. But it is a song tethered to the North Shore of Massachusetts. I must have made it up in the 70s or 80s. Big twelve string song. And the guys just fell into the thing. Kimbo is scatting, doubling his vocal on the bass. Joey gets the tone perfectly (he’s been playing this one for a long time), and Steve is playing just off to one side of center. Whee Doggies Jethro!
The Widower’s Winter was originally born of being with my grandfather Cameron in his later years. He didn’t play the fiddle (he did play the bass recorder, though), and he did appreciate older wine. He was a mentor, a fishing buddy, a friend, a woodcutter, and a delight. And since he died, I can summon his spirit when I need to borrow some strength. I have always felt fortunate for having known all four of my grandparents. Kimbo plays mandolin, and I put on a single layer of electric guitar. Volume pedals are wonderful things.
ZERO TO SIXTY IN FIFT NINE YEARS
The Breakfast Song. I was living with about half of the band Fred on a farm (called the Ranch) outside Lewisburg – must have been the early seventies. Those were wild times. The band was hotter than a porn shop parking lot on a Saturday night. And breakfast was a sacred event, sometimes starting pretty late in the day. But like my own family, it was a time to convene over great food, great coffee, and a particular sense of leisure that takes work to preserve.
Hair of the Dog .(January 1, 1984, Winooski) Well, sure enough a younger listener asked about the expression Hair of the Dog. It is ancient, I’m sure. An age-old remedy for repairing a dog bite was to eat some of the hair from the dog that bit you. This probably didn’t help much, factoring in the actual dog. And the bite. We know the expression as it pertains to drinking and drinking too much. The notion that starting off the day with a dose of whatever hootch had been taken in excess the night before must have seemed like a great idea. In Ireland it is called a ‘cure’. My friend Kitt Cox used to call a nasty hangover ‘a tomcat’ (“I had a tomcat this morning”). And if the hangover is virulent enough, then “there ain’t enough hair left on the dog that bit you” (another ancient expression) to be of much help. Depending upon the size, and folical nature of the dog in question, of course. Kimbo is playing bass, and I overdubbed the electric part, slide and all.
The Ballad of Big Bill’s Wife. Just a little partially clean fun. It has been a good song to start a set with, figuring if you get having the crap beat out of you early on, the rest is gravy. I don’t remember making this one up, but I do remember laughing myself stupid when “I turned around and there stood a man, he was as big as the gates of Hell” popped out. Sort of sums the whole mess up. Joel Vincent did the drumming, Kimbo played bass and the gunshot guitar, and I snuck in the bits and pieces of electric.
Lost Her to the Guru (1982, Lewisburg). True story.
Peggy Sue Redux. I was out in Terre Haute Indiana, staying with my Cousin Phoebe and her young family. I’d been hunkered down in Nashville for a month or so, trying to figure out how to get my cowboy boot in the door. Any door. I very much needed to get out of there for a while. Phoebe and husband Tom would go to work, and I’d sit down at the dining room table and write songs. I know that Thank You John on 99th Monkey was a Terre Haute tune, and there were two more that were keepers (but I don’t remember which songs they were now). Joey has been playing this one for years, and I think he captured the flavor superbly. Steve and Kimbo turned it into the rock and roll it really is.
Those Perfect Pearlies. I was living in Milton, Vermont, and this song gnawed its way into the world during the spring of 1978. There’s nothing quite like making up a clever song. As the lines roll out, there’s this sense of joy, of spiritual manifestation. Originally I had your face looking like Leon Spinks, and it taking all the Valentino you’ve got left. You know, if you sing a song long enough, it outgrows your audience. Or vice versa.
The I Love Her She Loves Me and He Wants to Shoot Me Blues. No memory of making this one up. It likely evolved from a bourbonated haze. Recording it was extra fun because I wanted to overdub an utterly hilarious guitar solo, and I do believe it came out pretty goofy. I recorded it on a TP Noble Guitar that was shortly thereafter purchased by Bill Burke, from Texas. Bill is a judge, but in his spare time he takes music into prisons and rehab centers and gets the residents singing along. I hope that some of the good cheer that went into that solo will come out where it is really needed. Steve and Kimbo most ably assist.
Pissing and Moaning. Again, I have NO IDEA where or when this one came out, but it came out laughing (I was probably living in Winooski, Vermont). Country music is a bottomless source of fun, but it has always annoyed me greatly because the sorrowful songs, the heartbreak songs, never offer a clue about what NOT to do if you want to keep a relationship going. It is just pain, loss, and loneliness. No cause for love’s demise is ever given. Its as if such things are completely irrelevant. And perhaps they are, in art. Country music is totally visceral. Maybe that is its charm, its draw. I mean, SOMETHING happened to cause a breakup, and it was probably the same things that cause breakups in Jamaica, Tibet, and Finland. Like cheating, fighting, drinking, etc etc etc. Maybe that’s why we love country music; it doesn’t LOOK at anything. It just FEELS. However, when every song seems like the wail of a victim, it can get a little old and desperately needs to be made fun of. Tom and Jina sing harmony, and Joey plays lead guitar. Steve and Kimbo keep it swangin’.
Talking to Ralph on the Big White Phone. That’s an expression I first heard from my cousin Bill McCloskey. Driving the porcelain bus. Technicolor yawn. Tossing cookies, Blowing lunch. And one of my favorites, from Tom Fladmark: Selling Buicks. I don’t know about this life we lead. Kimbo and Steve are holding it down. Originally I had commissioned members of The Philadelphia Jug Band to add a bunch of their raucous stuff, but the technology between studios was irreparably confusing. This song has been a favorite at jug band gatherings for a long, long time, particularly after the correct quota of Rebel Yell has been consumed.
Sax and Violins. Must have been the early 1980s, probably in Winooski. I’m sure a certain amount of chortling went along with this. Kimbo is on bass.
Sleeping. I’m pretty sure I was in Lewisburg when I made up this one. It’s a perennial favorite of narcoleptics the world over, and serves as a good singalong, best late at night. Jina, KJ, and Kimbo are singing along on this version, which was probably recorded late in the afternoon.
THE NINETY-NINTH MONKEY
The title comes from messing around with a popular socio-political axiom, parable, or myth (take your pick). The original involves two islands, quite far apart and completely out of contact. On Island A, the monkeys are busy doing their monkey things, when one day one of them discovers that he can get juicier grubs to eat if he uses a sharp stick to dig them out of a rotten log. This works so well that he tells his monkey buddy about it, and shows him how it is done. Monkey Number 2’s mind is blown, and he clues in Monkey Number 3. Soon the monkeys are learning this new trick en masse, and just when the 100th monkey gets it, SHAZAM! A monkey over on Island B figures out that, by using a sharp stick, he can get juicier grubs out of a rotten log. Then he tells his best friend about it . . . .
The parable is how good ideas are spread. Direct contact does not need to be made. It just happens, once enough monkeys (or humans) get the message.
But what about that 99th monkey? He is SO CLOSE to catapulting the good news, but he just isn’t going to be the guy. Whoever he shows his newfound stuff to is going to be the guy that crosses that line and has his wisdom spread like wildfire. Monkey 99 is just the next to the last link in the chain.
A Good Day in America started out years ago as All the Way to Georgia, which rhymed suitcase and cuteface. It wasn’t a bad song. It just wasn’t a very good song. It was a song written for some anonymous someone in Nashville. Good Day is about the 4th of July in Watsontown, Pa., where the 4th of July is a huge deal. It is a day of true celebration, and we look forward to it every year.
That Second Kiss started out as what my son Penn simply called, ‘The Lick’. Okay – I did play it a lot before the words tumbled out. I was thinking about how two people interact across a crowd, or in a large open space. Or both. The way two people move in sync, slowly working their way towards each other. Calculated, and yet casual, moves. Positioning themselves in such ways as to always be aware of where the other person is. Its kind of where love begins.
Thank You John was written in Terre Haute Indiana. I remember the moment I heard that John Lennon had been shot as well as I remember hearing about JFK. Some years later, at the end of 1999, there was a tremendous amount of drivel doing the rounds about what people remembered as the hugest moments in the 20th Century. I heard a couple of people say with conviction that the Space Shuttle Disaster was the biggie, and I somehow knew that they had never heard John Lennon sing Twist and Shout. Now THAT was something to remember. Kimbo and Steve make it move. And Joey’s playing on this one is so great . . . . we used to do this one a lot in various band situations.
Didn’t See It Coming came out of a discussion with my friend Misha, who told me of a mutual friend having his marriage suddenly dissolve without warning. He didn’t see it coming. It’s an expression we hear a lot, and I can’t prove it, but I think men get to say it more than women (as in, “I didn’t see it coming”). You don’t want to be the person that gets to say that. But . . . .how would you know if you were that person until you DO say it? Ah, life’s conundrums. I overdubbed the Wah Wah guitar, and Kimbo played bass.
In the Shadow of the Mountain. This tune was born in 1966, complete with rather sophomoric lyrics about extreme longing and loneliness. I always liked the guitar part (great for twelve string). I updated it in 2014 while contemplating the destruction of the lumber drying kilns at Pennsylvania House Furniture in Lewisburg (there’s an extremely crass looking CVS there now). Those kilns stood for a lot over their many years of service. Pa House workers tended to be family members. Whole clans of people starting there after high school and working until retiring. I hope that the families in China who got those jobs can appreciate that. I doubt that the corporate suits that sent the jobs overseas can. Kimbo and Steve gave it some bottom and swing. That little electric part was firmly stuck in my craw until we recorded it.
This Time. Just a little message that giving up is not an option. John Sweeney plays harp, and Kimbo plays Dobro.
Sweet Potato Moon rose in 2011, I think. Just sort of happened. I’m up to something like 46 verses now (don’t worry – I perform them in rotation).
Rivertown has quite a genetic code to it. I was living in Vermont, and I stumbled onto the guitar part, and couldn’t find a lyric with a map and a flashlight. So I asked my father, Karl, if he might want to give the thing a try. He readily agreed; I put the lick down on a cassette and mailed it to him. After a suitably polite amount of time, I asked him about it on the phone. Oh yeah , he had listened to the guitar part (I had hummed the melody, or what I thought was the melody). More time elapsed, I focused on other things, and I asked him again. Oh yeah , he was listening frequently. After a couple of months, I asked him again (in my normal cheerful way). Karl said he was having some real trouble with it. I concurred that it was a tough one, adding “There are three or four different ways to hear a rhyme scheme in this thing.” There was a rather long pause from the other end of the phone, and Karl said, rather hesitantly, “Rhyme scheme?”
Probably 35 years later, I was noodling in Open D Tuning, and I relapsed into the lick (I had been doing that all along), only THIS time, I had a capo somewhere around the fourth fret. And Rivertown just rolled out like it had always been there, hiding. I would hesitate to be presumptuous and give advice to songwriters, but here’s a good tip: if you’re stuck, and have been for a while, try changing keys. I do not like capos much – I never have – but I much credit the Schubb people for helping with this song.
The first recording of Rivertown had some harmony singing, and it sounded lovely, but ultimately extraneous to me. We rerecorded the whole thing using a trick that came out of nowhere: I switched to the twelve string mid-song. I think of Gene Wilder snatching the chessman from Cleavon Little in Blazing Saddles; you wouldn’t believe how fast I made the guitar switch. And the slide lick is probably as close as I’ll ever get to actually channeling George Harrison, the impeccable master of the slide guitar. Kimbo loped in with some wonderful bass late in the song.
400 Miles Tonight. Unresolved. Unfinished business of the deep love type. I had a somewhat different version recorded in 1982, and when it resurfaced in scanning through dozens of songs, I figured that reworking it somewhat would be a good idea. I think it is a bit more mature. I overdubbed the four (I think) electric parts. Volume pedals are wonderful tools.
I made up the London Song in 1966 and except for a few brief forays into God knows what, I’ve been singing it ever since. It is the oldest of my songs that I will sing, for sure (most of what came before it was half baked teen drivel at best). Folks have always sung along with it. Years ago there was a guy who called me “GWP”, for “Grimey window panes.” Having Tom, Jina, and Kimbo singing on this was just Hog Heaven.
These Fields is a whole world of fun to play on the guitar. Lyrically it was born driving over the mountain from Jersey Shore to Elimsport in the autumn, when the leaves are gone and you can see for a long, long way to the South. The White Deer Valley has a long, troubled, and mysterious history, but from up there, it sure does look like a crazy quilt (when the leaves are gone). Yeah, it is a cliché, but I’ll plead the Fifth. Most of the families in that valley have been there for many generations. KJ’s vocals on this are, for me, the high point of the whole shootin’ match. It was a shoe-in as a way to end the CD.
“Holy S**t! These songs are BEAUTIFUL!
I feel like the first human to ever bite into a ripe plum. Sheeeesh!”
– Bill (His Highness) Irwin, Beacon, N.Y.