lay me down

Lay me down in the field
Where the weeds grow tall
Lay me down beside you
Before I fall
Before I fall

Sing a song of love
Sing a song of hate
Sing a song of dreams
That always have to wait
Have to wait

Lay me down by still deep water
Where the flowers talk in rhyme
Lay me down for I’m weary
And I’ve been running for such a long time
All of my life

Sing a song of hope
Sing a song of loss
Sing a song of dreams
That are worth the cost
Worth the cost

Lay me down in the field
Where the weeds grow tall
Lay me down beside you
Before I fall

if i die

If I die don’t mourn me none
Just raise a glass to all the things I’ve done
If you must shed a tear
Just don’t let it water down your beer

If I die before my baby
Please tell him I was always true
And if he dies shortly after me
That’s just the chivalrous thing to do

And if I die before I have children
Find a little girl with cold green eyes
Give her my guitar, and a taste for whisky
And teach her my songs about wicked, loving lies

If I die don’t mourn me none
Just raise a glass to all the things I’ve done
Sing my songs and drink til you’ve forgotten
That I am gone, gone, gone…

welcome, welcome, welcome

I want to welcome Shannon and Dustin to our little lyrics collective.

Post away, gentlemen.

fondly,

Julie "Perdita" Jurgens

someone said something...

...on this blog once that reminded me of this quote: All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up.

James Baldwin wrote that, and that just about sums up the creative process for me.

Sorry About That

So, the other night, I was bored and tossed off some kind of half-assed poem/lyric/thing that was supposed to go to another blogspot site. It wound up here, because I didn't pay attention to where I was signing in. Sorry.

...and one more

This is probably my biggest holiday "hit."

COMMUNIST BLOC
(tune of "Jingle Bell Rock")

Communist, communust, communist bloc!
spend all our time just waitin' in line
all o' the bourgeouise feared revolution
now the commie regime has begun!
Communist, communust, communist bloc!
seizin' the means to halt the machines
dancin' and prancin' around the red square
in the frosty air!
The prolateriate will this year get
to rock the night away
the manifesto, from the get-go
seems to work in theory, anyway
Hammer and sickle laid down at our feet
capitalists are stopped
reds and pinkos, Cubans and Chinese
That's the Communist,
That's the Communist,
That's the Communist Bloc!

Winter

Here's my other holiday-ish song. I always thought the chorus, tune and opening line of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" were fantastic, though the rest keep it from getting on my list of
Christmas Songs I Can Sing Without Worrying About What My Rabbi Would Say. So I stole the chorus and used it to close out my last album.


WINTER


Mr Emery sings a bit on certain holidays
But he never really talks much anymore
He just sits there in the corner with his cider in his hand
While his wife says "well, he had a hard war."
He made it back from Europe with half of a tattoo
And a limp that never really went away
Took his GI deferment and he spent it all on her
And now all that she ever hears him say
Are tidings of comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy

April is a joker and September is a trap
October is like busting out of jail
She changed her name to Winter and she curled up her hair
And drove out to the last mile of the trail
And she smiled at all the strangers with a shiney crooked grin
And hung around when everything had closed
She went dancing on the sidewalks with the people who were left
And whispered to them when they held her close
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy

One day I'll be an old man, and I'll wear a coat like that
And a scarf about like that one, only brown
I'll grow my hair as wild as I can make it grow
When I go out walking through the town
I'll mutter curses on the steep hills, and when I make the top
I'll shake my cane and laugh up at the sky
I'll pretend that I spoke Russian when I was a little boy
And think of winter with a twinkle in my eye
Oh tidings of comfort and joy
Oh tidings of comfort and joy

nancy

What's that bad blood in your water song of yours?

and the one about fishing...yeah, fishing...

I humbly request those lyrics be posted.

happy holidays

I'll post a few of my holiday-themed songs over the next week - though their connection to holidays is generally vague at best. Here's one I wrote in the middle of Coach Smith's chemistry class, right around the holidays way back in my sophomore year of high school, when I should have been taking actual notes. I didn't do so well in the class, but I'm still able to post this song nearly a decade later, and I certainly haven't used a bunsen burner lately.

ALARM BELLS
TTTO: Jingle Bells

Oh, elements, elements, molecules and moles
wouldn’t Coach be mad about the test tubes that we stole?
elements, elements, present everywhere
if you mix ‘em up just right they’ll burn right through your hair

mixing up the flasks, trying to make stuff burn
“what’s that smell?” you ask, “It makes my stomach churn”
liquids start to boil, atoms start to split
before each lab we have to ask “how dangerous is it?”

elements, elements, solid liquid gas
just remember: duck and cover when you see the flash!
elements, elements, bout as safe as guns
but I must admit that those explosions can be fun

The bell rings loud and clear to let the fun begin
this solution here will burn right through your skin
Gases in the air, acids on the floor,
and these stupid safety goggles make my nose feel sore

elements elements, “hey watch out!” you say
what the hell, I didn’t need that eyeball anyway
elements, elements, I love chemistry
maybe if I’m lucky I can still pull off a C*


* - I've no idea whether I actually pulled off a C, but I think I at least passed that semester.

pinned

she sits in the back booth drinking her coffee
thinking about you & the life she's led
she comes from a small town that's slowly dying
the farmland is barren & so is her heart
she gets drunk and goes home with boys who don't like her
but still she's a body they can own for the night

and when she wakes up she only wants coffee
but she's pinned by the weight of her dreams
til finally she slips out into the morning
and nothing she looks at is quite what it seems

she drinks alone often drowning her sorrows
but somehow the damn things have learned how to swim
she's taking speed now she wants to be thinner
she thinks that you'd love her if she were small
she tries on her new dress looks in the mirror
she hates her body and the boys tear it down

and when she wakes up she only has coffee
but still she's pinned by the weight of her dreams
finally she slips out into the morning
and nothing she looks at is quite what it seems

she drinks until morning sleeps until nightfall
and doesn't remember the hours that passed
she wrote you a letter trying to tell you
all of the things that she thinks you should know
she once had a baby he died in the bathroom
she's running from all of the things she can't face

and when she wakes up she only wants coffee
but she's pinned by the weight of her dreams
finally she slips out into the morning
and nothing she looks at is quite what it seems

Women love this song, and it's not hard to understand why--it touches on a lot of major themes that almost all women go through at one point or another. The more personal a song is for me, the more I distance myself from it--here, I use "she" instead of "I" because, otherwise, it would just be too painful to sing and to listen to.

I've never taken speed, nor had an abortion/miscarriage, but I personally know girls/women who have, so I pulled their experiences in to add depth to the song. Everything else is completely true and has happened to yours truly. An older couple once mocked this song by saying "You young people and your problems---" as if this song catalogued things that were over-the-top and melodramatic rather than realistic and pertinent.

I can't write songs about big, grand things, although I do think that my songs do explore larger themes in a smaller way. If we can't love and be loved by one other person, how can we ever be expected to have compassion for the whole of humanity? And the subtle political commentary of the girl's small town rural home being barren, and decimated by soulless, efficient factory farming...I always like when I can slip in little things like that.

That's the thing about songwriting, when you're mostly heard live--there's no time for the listener to catch, ponder and assimilate those subtleties. In one listen, all you're going to come away with from this song is the sort of whiny coffeehouse girl singer thing...but, as with most girls, there's more churning here beneath the surface than anyone realizes. Was the baby the result of a drunken date rape? A mutual sexual experience? The numbness and isolation in this song is staggering, but because it is felt by a girl who is also concerned with how she appears to boys, a lot of listeners feel no qualms about dismissing it.

And all she wants is a cup of coffee and perhaps someone to share it with. How decimated can one person be when that small pleasure will be consolation enough for all that she's endured? Unable to conceive of all her wrongs being redressed, she settles on one small, achievable goal to strive for, a focus point that will help her get through the drunken nights, the uncomfortable encounters with strangers, the hours spent caught in reverie about all that's she's had and lost...

Anyway. Um. Yeah. That's what this song is about. As I see it anyway.

H - E - Double Hockey Stick

Hungry hungry hippos
hurry home -
having hardly heard
heaven's homeward heave
hush Halifax.
Hurry, Horatio.
Henry's home, having hard helpings.
Hungry hungry hippos
hurry home, Henrietta.
hurry home, Hugo.
highways have hard hitchhikers -
hungry hungry hippos
hurrying home.



Well, that's a bit of nonsense.

Here, to justify posting it at all, really, is the cover of my new album, due out in spring, which will not likely feature this song. (Well, maybe as a hidden track)

One Last Short Poem

Not done with an H song yet, but here's another song from the new album. Take some photos for the cover in the morning!
Wrote this the week Hunter S Thompson and Arthur Miller died.

ONE LAST SHORT POEM

Just before Hector
Died in the night
He took out a chewed ballpoint pen
For the first time
Since the whole thing in Stockholm
He started writing again

Chorus (2x)
One last short poem
One more for the road

Just eight short lines
About drinking beer
By the tracks where Neil Cassady died
And hoping the train
Would slow down enough
That he could jump on for a ride

Chorus

Hector then tore
The page from his notebook
Folded it over twice
Wrote on the back
“deconstruct this one, suckers!”
he was laughing
when he closed his eyes

Chorus

a small affair

My second album, A Small Affair, of which all hard copies are gone, is now available for purchase on iTunes.

and all the populous rejoiced.

Tell you friends. or enemies. depending on your perspective.

When Kevin Comes Marching Home

The songs for the upcoming album are divided into two sets: The "a team" (songs that'll definitely go on) and the "b team" (songs that may or may not). Out of the 10 or so b team songs that I'll give a shot at, only about 2-3 will make it. This is one of the b-team songs, written over a day or so in July and then played about once, expanding on another Cornersville character mentioned briefly in "New York Rain."

WHEN KEVIN COMES MARCHING HOME

When Kevin comes marching home again
I doubt that they'll have a parade
just some friends and relations down at the airport
meeting him by baggage claim
he'll smile politely and kiss all the cheeks
but he won't look at you in the face
as he hugs you briefly, then heads for his car
and peels his old stickers off right away.
You'll get in the front seat and put on a brave face
and drive off and leave me alone
I know that I won't see you much anymore
when Kevin comes marching home

When Kevin comes marching home again
hurrah, hurrah and all that
He won't grow his hair back, and he'll smoke like a fiend
and he won't ever show up to class
we'll wonder if he died and sent back a ghost
to fill in his place over here
and once it finds out that it's not fooling anyone
it'll fade til it just disappears
Well, I can't quite be certain, but he sure sounded different
when I last talked to him on the phone
We can safely assume that things won't be the same
when Kevin comes marching home

What if spends all his time in the basement
"exercising his arm?"
and thinking of moving to south Indiana
to work on his great uncle's farm?
Or handing out pamphlets down by the park
that ramble and don't make much sense?
Or selling those copies of his god-awful poems
for two bucks and ninety-nine cents?
taking the drugs that he swore off before
and constantly asking for loans?
I'm only saying that you know it might happen
when Kevin comes marching home

Don't get me wrong, when Kevin comes back
man, I hope to God he's okay
But he just looks like hell in those pictures he sent
though he already did, anyway
Have you seen that one where he's in his green jacket
standing by some sort of gate?
All I can say is that I've never seen him
with that kind of look on his face.
Of course I'm still hoping that it's all in my head
and I think maybe I should just go
Cause it'll only be harder (for me, anyway)
when Kevin comes marching home.