Barbara Allen's Grave

And here's one just for Halloween; more or less a song about the infamous Resurrection Mary, along with One-Armed Charlie (who was a well-known Bughouse Square speaker, contrasted here with the guy in Charlie on the MTA), and Barbara Allen of Childe Ballad fame (who died of grief after a guy [william or sir john green or any number of names from the dozens of versions] died of love for her, then had a rose grow from her grave to wrap around the briar that grew from the guy's grave). In some versions the plants are reversed, but having a rose from her grave, not his, works better for the song. A very good version of the ballad itself is on Bob Dylan at the Gaslight, which is now available at your local Starbucks (or in versions with twice as many tracks on bootleg), and my favorite twist on it is "The Briar and the Rose" on Tom Waits' "The Black Rider" album. Anyway, without further intro:

BARBARA ALLEN'S GRAVE

I picked the rose from Barbara Allen’s grave
And carefully wrapped it up tight
They told me you’d like it if I gave it to you
Under a moonless night
I cut a dashing figure
As I stepped from the train into town
Ignoring the voices in the back of my head
That said I should have been home by now
I picked the rose
I picked the rose
I picked the rose
From Barbara Allen’s grave

One Armed charlie just came from the Clark
And he stands on the benches to speak
To the assembled fanatics who stare politely
And the pidgeons who walk over his feet
As he talks about being stuck under Boston
Twelve years ago on the train
And glances my way, because I was there with him
He was the one who told me your name
I picked the rose I picked the rose
I picked the rose
From Barbara Allen’s grave

Mr. Sherringford is a very clean man
Except for his yellow teeth you know
If you ever saw them beneath his Clark Gable moustache
You might even say that they glowed
I know that he’ll give me the details I need
But I think that it’s going to be hard
No one leaves this diner at this time of night
Without beating Mr. Sherringford at cards
I picked the rose I picked the rose
I picked the rose
From Barbara Allen’s grave

I dream at night of violins And dance halls long since closed
You run out the back door wearing A brown jacket over your clothes
Turning to look at me just for a second Every night it’s the same
I wake up not knowing quite where I am Before I can call out your name

The last time I saw you there were two dead leaves
Stuck to the side of of your face
Hurrying down Archer Avenue
Towards the Resurrection gates
You looked as cold as Russian winter
As I watched you disappear
The gloves you were wearing fell to the ground
But I’ve got them for you here
I picked the rose I picked the rose
I picked the rose
From Barbara Allen’s grave

I Don't Believe in Summer

I think I'll be calling my new album "A Clark Street Carol" if I can work that line into a song..... or maybe I'll just go with "Wooden Fire Escape." Maybe "The View From a Wooden Fire Escape." Other possibilities are "Crooked," "Briars, Roses and Weeds," "Apartment Songs,".....maybe I'll just go with one of the leftovers from the possible book titles I had to come up with. It's a stumper. Then again, neither of the last two had a title when I started recording, so I guess it'll come to me.

Anyway, here's a song from the forthcoming album (to be recorded in January) that's already been covered.

I DON'T BELIEVE IN SUMMER
(2005 by Adam Selzer, ASCAP, etc.)

I wish that the sun would go behind the Hancock building
And cast a shadow over me and cover me this morning
Like the covers that she stole last night
But all I see is this blinding light
That I will not let play tricks on my eye
yesterday was one degree
From the hottest day in local history
And they had me out on the patio
All day long while the radio
played the same five summer staples
Over and over and over and over

Chorus:
I don’t believe in summer anymore
I don’t believe in sunlight shining through the window to the kitchen floor
I don’t believe in very much the way that I believed before
I don’t believe in summer anymore

I’m bitter about every hour that I’ve spent all through the years
Working nametag jobs in strip mall towns and tourist traps out at the pier
Remember that year back in Cornersville Trace
When you were working at the discount place
And sometimes when the restaurant let me out in time
I’d drive over there to talk to you
On the pretense of buying a tape or two
And we’d hide behind the counter in garden supplies
Eating a bag of stolen fries
If I’d kept all of my nametags I could cover a goddamn wall by now

chorus

Then there was that summer when I was home from school
And clerking afternoons at the video store while you watched kids at the city pool
And since they’d given you the master key
You’d sneak in after hours with me
Rest our feet in the shallow end and stare up at the sky
You’d say “are you sleeping? Are you close?
Are you dreaming? Just almost?”
And I’d see you looking down at me
As though you were in love with me
But it was just a trick of the summer weather, I’m old enough to know that now

chorus

At Arm's Length

you love me like you ride the train
passive and asleep
dreaming of other faces you'll see
dreaming of other places you will be
dreaming of the other company you'll keep
while you keep me at arm's length

you hold me like a treasure that's been too long underground
you kiss me like a princess with briars all around
you play me like a pedal steel that makes no sound
you look at me like someone lost who never wanted to be found

at first like the French I put up a resistance
then like the Berlin Wall I fell
for like F. Scott you were so persistent
and now like Zelda I'm burning in a beautiful hell

I would like to say "I love you",
plain and simple, but it's not
I would like to say I follow
the complexity of your plot
I would like to say I'm brave enough
to turn another page
I would like to say I'm mature enough
to act your age
I would like to say:

you love me like you ride the train
passive and asleep
dreaming of other faces you'll see
dreaming of other places you will be
dreaming of the other company you'll keep
while you keep me at arm's length



I could really write this in the first person, too... I don't know. I feel like I'm trying a little too hard to be witty here, mostly in the "like the French..." verse.

I dunno. It's very rhyme-y. I like the fingerpicking that's in the music. I like this one. I think it's a keeper.

Just Checking...

Earlier today I posted in my own blog and it also turned up here.
So - I just wanted to see if the reverse was true.

It is not.

Carry on.

Testing...One...two...

Hello

I just want to say thanks to Perdita and crew for inviting me to this forum. I'm a Chicago-based singer and songwriter and am looking forward to reading and sharing song lyrics with all of you.

Johnny Sunday

Here's a cheery little number about the clerical abuse scandal in the Catholic Church. Written from the point of view of a victim who has lost everything, sleeps in a park, and plots the murder of his assailant.
Good times, everybody!

JOHNNY SUNDAY

by the stars over my head
by the royal green of my bed
under arbor's summer crown
i declare once and for all
from the tip-top of the wall
johnny sunday is going down

and if you see him
don't believe a word he says
cause he'll just slip you
another lie from the book of the ages
with no answer why

by the dark swell of my heart
by the dear dreams that depart
from a diary full of tears
i repeat once to myself
to myself and nobody else
johnny sunday's end is near

and if you see him
don't believe a word he says
cause he'll just slip you
another lie from the book of the ages
with no answer why

i'll never play the fool
i'll never drop my guard again
i'll be the secret scribe
of gutter lullabyes

by the stars over my head
by the royal green of my bed
under arbor's summer crown
i declare once and for all
from the tip-top of the wall
johnny sunday is going down

(c)2005DaveDonovan

Coffee Jingle

In honor of Susie's coffee song, I shall offer my coffee jingle to you all.

I wrote it in 1995 for a song writing class.

The Coffee Jingle
Copyright 1995 Narciso Lobo

You make a good cup o' joe
And I am one who should know
For I have had some bad joe
In my life
Time

Yes I have been all around
All the cafes in town
But your java beans are so brown
Yes you grind
So Fine

It's such a subtle art
Makes me wonder why we've been apart
'Cause you boil the coffee of my heart

Hello

Here's my little intro...

I'm Narciso Lobo, I've been playing guitar since I was 16 (I'm 34 now), so I should be much better than I am now. I never played the guitar to become a great guitar player, I juat wanted to write songs. Okay, that's a lie. I picked up the guitar to meet chicks.

The first song I learned was "The Times They Are A'Changin'". My dad had a teach yourself guitar book and it had that song in it. It had little arrows for the strums. Down, down up, down up, down, that sort of thing.

I seriously started writing songs soon after, and I feel like I'm just now starting to get any good at it. Song-writing is tough for me. I can spend months on a song. I'm not a prodigy like Julie, dammit.

But I like doing it. There's nothing quite like writing a satisfying song.

object

I am an object to be acted upon
I learned this the night we passed out on the lawn
You told me that you loved me in the cold light of dawn
Because I am an object to be acted upon

I lost my soul in Georgia on a midnight train
To a boy who told riddles and would never speak plain
He tried to make his mark, but left only a stain
I lost my soul in Georgia on a midnight train

All I have left is a handle of jack and some cigarettes
All I need is a jagged edge and someplace to bleed
A death that’s quiet, peaceful and discreet
That’s all that’s left for a girl like me

I lost my heart in Portland to Lili Marlene
She refused my offer, but accepted the blame
Ever since that night, I’ve felt nothing but shame
I lost my heart in Portland to Lili Marlene

I lost my will to live in the back of a car
I guess that dress wasn’t meant for that bar
He got what he wanted because I couldn’t get far
I lost my will to live in the back of a car

All I have left is a handle of jack and some cigarettes
All I need is a jagged edge and someplace to bleed
A death that’s quiet, peaceful and discreet
That’s all that’s left for a girl like me

I am an object to be acted upon
I learned this the night we passed out on the lawn
you said you loved me in the cold light of dawn
but I am not a person
just an object
to be acted upon

I wrote this song after a shitty night when I just felt terrible about myself. I was feeling used, unwanted, unloved, unappreciated--like a dancing bear with a chain around my neck. Really, quite a melodramatic evening. It's completely true emotionally, but not autobiographically.

Here y'go, Ciso.

CROOKED HOUSES (of Armitage Avenue)
(c) 2005 by Adam Selzer. ASCAP.

The old crooked houses of Armitage Avenue
tumble their way to the sky
between the cafes where we’ve had our black coffee
every morning since early July
They stumble along between riverfront factories
With smokestacks rising behind
That look just like chimneys that send the grey smoke
Up into the red flannel sky
And you can get me so twisted me up
You can just make me feel so blue
Until I feel just as crooked
As the old crooked houses
Of Armitage Avenue

I have some change in my pocket
Enough for one more cup of tea
After that’s gone, I’ll just have these songs
To convince you to stay here with me

The old crooked houses of Armitage Avenue
Have normally seen better days
With their old Queen Anne turrets and wood spindle porches
That have fallen into disarray
You can see all the cracks in the paint jobs
From the bus stop across the street
In the windows you can see the remodeling jobs
That they’ll probably never complete
And I may be broken and cracked myself
I’ve been coughing forever, it’s true
But I camouflage nicely
With the old crooked houses
On Armitage Avenue

The doors barely hang on the hinges
And the bedrock was never that good
And lately I’ve felt about as much use
As a fire escape made out of wood

The old crooked houses of Armitage Avenue
Come from Victorian times
They’re full of old people and old thrift store cookware
And ancient garage sale finds
In the morning the old women come to the porches
To sweep up the overnight leaves
While the old men stay in, stumble down to the sofa
To turn on the morning tv
And I’ll wait here at this bus stop
As long as I’m waiting with you
Til I’m one more old person in the old crooked houses
of Armitage Avenue

Crooked Houses

Adam -

Can I make a request for the lyrics to Crooked Houses?

Ciso.