Here's the beginning of a song I'm working on right now. I'm not trying to get into the habit of posting unfinshed lyrics, but I really like these so far. Inspired by Julie Jurgens' "Whiskey Song."
I Wish I Was Your Whiskey (Sweet Perdita)
Every Monday night
And every other Wednesday
Sweet Perdita gently breaks my heart
And I pour her drinks for free
And hope the boss don’t see me
But when sweet Perdita’s singing, I ain’t so smart.
She takes one shot of Jack
For every love song
That I dream she sings for me alone
She needs two shots of Beam
In between her covers of Nina Simone
I wish I was your whiskey
‘Cause I can ease your pain
I’d cheer your ass up
Before you put down the cup
And if you fuck up
I’ll take the blame
I wish I was your whiskey
Ain’t nothing that I’d rather be
I’ll help you be bold
Warm you up when you’re cold
And you can drown all your sorrows in me
To be continued...
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
Hello from Narciso
Hello everyone.
Sorry I've been AWOL lately. My dad's really sick from colon cancer and has been in the hospital. I haven't had any time to post, much less write.
I miss you guys, and I'll be back soon.
If you guys want to read up on his situation, you can do so at:
anythingfordad.blogspot.com
Ciso.
Sorry I've been AWOL lately. My dad's really sick from colon cancer and has been in the hospital. I haven't had any time to post, much less write.
I miss you guys, and I'll be back soon.
If you guys want to read up on his situation, you can do so at:
anythingfordad.blogspot.com
Ciso.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
mostly these days
chorus:
sometimes I wish I were silver
so I wouldn't mind being so cold
and sometimes I wish I were water
so I wouldn't mind growing old
but mostly these days I wish that I were
embroidered on your pillow
so I wouldn't have to worry about convincing you
to take me home
verse 1
have you changed your destination
or are you just taking the long way around?
I don't fault you for your hesitation
but I don't want to lose what I've found
it took me a long time to get here
so don't blame me for wanting to stay
besides I still need to figure out
why at night all cats are grey
chorus
verse 2
now that your ticket's in hand
you're ambivalent about wanting to do
it's hard to help you understand
all the things that I want you to know
the train will be leaving the station
with or without you, my friend
will I be a destination
or simply a means to an end?
chorus
verse 3
now I'm a bird on the wire
your love is my parasol
will you catch me in your desire?
or just watch me spin as I fall?
I have no change in my pocket
just some poison and poetry
I know you don't believe in summer
but I wish you'd believe in me
chorus
The chorus is a variaton/derivative of a Pablo Neruda poem. I loves me some Pablo Neruda.
I am annoyed, a little, at the fact that I used "destination" so much, but any other word wouldn't fit as well, and would smack of "trying too hard." (God knows I try as hard as I can, but one never wants it to come across that way).
"Now I'm a bird on the wire" is a direct reference to the Cohen song. "Your love is my parasol" refers to a line from love letter that Zelda Fitzgerald wrote to F Scott.
Other references abound, easily discernible to the intelligent, close listener.
I'd love to write more train songs. I've always lived near trains, and there's something mythical about them, that and the fact that they are chock full of hoboes. I loves me some hoboes almost as much as I loves Pablo Neruda.
sometimes I wish I were silver
so I wouldn't mind being so cold
and sometimes I wish I were water
so I wouldn't mind growing old
but mostly these days I wish that I were
embroidered on your pillow
so I wouldn't have to worry about convincing you
to take me home
verse 1
have you changed your destination
or are you just taking the long way around?
I don't fault you for your hesitation
but I don't want to lose what I've found
it took me a long time to get here
so don't blame me for wanting to stay
besides I still need to figure out
why at night all cats are grey
chorus
verse 2
now that your ticket's in hand
you're ambivalent about wanting to do
it's hard to help you understand
all the things that I want you to know
the train will be leaving the station
with or without you, my friend
will I be a destination
or simply a means to an end?
chorus
verse 3
now I'm a bird on the wire
your love is my parasol
will you catch me in your desire?
or just watch me spin as I fall?
I have no change in my pocket
just some poison and poetry
I know you don't believe in summer
but I wish you'd believe in me
chorus
The chorus is a variaton/derivative of a Pablo Neruda poem. I loves me some Pablo Neruda.
I am annoyed, a little, at the fact that I used "destination" so much, but any other word wouldn't fit as well, and would smack of "trying too hard." (God knows I try as hard as I can, but one never wants it to come across that way).
"Now I'm a bird on the wire" is a direct reference to the Cohen song. "Your love is my parasol" refers to a line from love letter that Zelda Fitzgerald wrote to F Scott.
Other references abound, easily discernible to the intelligent, close listener.
I'd love to write more train songs. I've always lived near trains, and there's something mythical about them, that and the fact that they are chock full of hoboes. I loves me some hoboes almost as much as I loves Pablo Neruda.
not quite a lyrics post
Not quite a lyrics post, but here's a preview of the tray card for my album, which is now being mixed. I especially like the shot in the bottom left; it's like a picture old men playing cards in the cafe have of themselves from back in the 30's.
So, lyrics (from the last album) to follow.
Sixty-Six
I spend my nights at the Salvadore Deli
Eating bowls of chili that are hotter than hell
Talking to some Dickensian man who speaks
Three languages poorly and no language well
Slicer stole the paper and he's sitting at the bar
Freddie's digging out a couple pennies from the jar
CHORUS
And the old men all play 66
With the cards
They all play 66
In the corners
They all play 66
And they won't deal me in
Lila ran away on a bitter old night
From a Foster Freeze outside of St. Mark's Clearing
Grabs a seat in my booth and she plays with a spoon
Says "I'm way too young to be this world weary"
Casts a throwaway glance at the late night clerks
And pets a tiny kitten that she keeps in her purse
Chorus
It's raining again and I'm all out of change
Barely awake but I don't want to sleep
Freddie's outside and Slicer disappeared
And Lila moves over puts her hand on my knee
But I just look out the window, my thoughts are still on you
And I wonder if you're staring at a rainy evening, too
Chorus
(this is usually ended with a few lines from "Rumania Rumania" by Aaron Lebedeff when I do it live - an old Yiddish standard about all the things you can get to eat in Romania. Since my Yiddish is lousy, on the recording I just repeated the word "pastramala" (need I translate?) for the coda)
So, lyrics (from the last album) to follow.
Sixty-Six
I spend my nights at the Salvadore Deli
Eating bowls of chili that are hotter than hell
Talking to some Dickensian man who speaks
Three languages poorly and no language well
Slicer stole the paper and he's sitting at the bar
Freddie's digging out a couple pennies from the jar
CHORUS
And the old men all play 66
With the cards
They all play 66
In the corners
They all play 66
And they won't deal me in
Lila ran away on a bitter old night
From a Foster Freeze outside of St. Mark's Clearing
Grabs a seat in my booth and she plays with a spoon
Says "I'm way too young to be this world weary"
Casts a throwaway glance at the late night clerks
And pets a tiny kitten that she keeps in her purse
Chorus
It's raining again and I'm all out of change
Barely awake but I don't want to sleep
Freddie's outside and Slicer disappeared
And Lila moves over puts her hand on my knee
But I just look out the window, my thoughts are still on you
And I wonder if you're staring at a rainy evening, too
Chorus
(this is usually ended with a few lines from "Rumania Rumania" by Aaron Lebedeff when I do it live - an old Yiddish standard about all the things you can get to eat in Romania. Since my Yiddish is lousy, on the recording I just repeated the word "pastramala" (need I translate?) for the coda)
Friday, January 13, 2006
poems in my grave
Will you throw your poems in my grave?
Or will you publish all my letters under your own name?
Will you forever hide yourself away,
Or will you one day come to me and let yourself be tamed?
If there’s a hell and I end up there
Will you lead me out with a song?
Or will you pretend that you don’t even care,
And tell everyone that I had done you wrong?
Would you forsake me for a chance at fame?
Would you still love my songs even if no one knew my name?
Are you afraid of me because I let myself be tamed?
Will you throw your poems in my grave?
Brand new. Wrote the first line in my head on my walk home from work tonight...and here's the first, and probably final, draft (includes minute tweaks, but essentially this is how it came out).
I read in Sexing The Cherry about some mad Victorian poet--Browning or Keats--throwing all of his most recently composed poems into his wife's open grave upon her death (later he fetched them, but what a gesture!). I really want for someone to love me that much, but am doubtful as to whether or not anyone ever will.
Additionally, the idea of "being tamed" has returned to my work...not that I think mad, messy, fucked-up complicated artist folk should be tamed, per se--the world needs us, traipsing about in all our weird, fucked up glory--but I do believe in being tamed by one person for that person...tamed meaning more of a bending rather than a breaking. Being tamed shouldn't be a beating down, it should be a wearing in, the way one molds one's body to a pair of jeans, or to their pillow or bed. Patterns and habits pleasing to the beloved become more prominent and like second nature, and those that are displeasing recede into the background. Being tamed isn't losing oneself, its becoming more fully the self that you've always wanted to be.
...
|
|
|
Ah, fuck, don't read that shit anymore. I'm not even drunk, I'm just a silly girl who wants to be kissed while she isn't looking.
Or will you publish all my letters under your own name?
Will you forever hide yourself away,
Or will you one day come to me and let yourself be tamed?
If there’s a hell and I end up there
Will you lead me out with a song?
Or will you pretend that you don’t even care,
And tell everyone that I had done you wrong?
Would you forsake me for a chance at fame?
Would you still love my songs even if no one knew my name?
Are you afraid of me because I let myself be tamed?
Will you throw your poems in my grave?
Brand new. Wrote the first line in my head on my walk home from work tonight...and here's the first, and probably final, draft (includes minute tweaks, but essentially this is how it came out).
I read in Sexing The Cherry about some mad Victorian poet--Browning or Keats--throwing all of his most recently composed poems into his wife's open grave upon her death (later he fetched them, but what a gesture!). I really want for someone to love me that much, but am doubtful as to whether or not anyone ever will.
Additionally, the idea of "being tamed" has returned to my work...not that I think mad, messy, fucked-up complicated artist folk should be tamed, per se--the world needs us, traipsing about in all our weird, fucked up glory--but I do believe in being tamed by one person for that person...tamed meaning more of a bending rather than a breaking. Being tamed shouldn't be a beating down, it should be a wearing in, the way one molds one's body to a pair of jeans, or to their pillow or bed. Patterns and habits pleasing to the beloved become more prominent and like second nature, and those that are displeasing recede into the background. Being tamed isn't losing oneself, its becoming more fully the self that you've always wanted to be.
...
|
|
|
Ah, fuck, don't read that shit anymore. I'm not even drunk, I'm just a silly girl who wants to be kissed while she isn't looking.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Long Way Home (again)
Think I've got a line on this one now....
LONG WAY HOME (version 4 or 5)
January's coming to the transient hotel
where I've been staying too many nights
we strike our matches against the moon of old Chicago
and look to see how hard it's snowing in the light
When I forget to light the candles (as I do most Friday nights)
Emily comes and lights them for me
she says that I'd be lost if I didn't have her
next door to the room where I sleep
But I have never been lost
I have never been lost
I have never been lost
I've just taken the long way home
Three doors down, Levy looks about 90
and claims that he's older than that
Says he fought with Jack Johnson back in the early 20's
and was knocked out in two minutes flat
He's been at the hotel since his wife died
which was nearly two decades ago
but he says he can't leave, because when the light is just right
he can sometimes see her face in the snow
he has never been lost
he has never been lost
he has never been lost
he's just taken the long way home
The bar at the hotel has wood paneled walls
we sit in line from soprano to baritone
Emily's an alto, she drinks vodka tonic
Levy's pumping coins into the phone
so when they start up the countdown on the TV
we'll be ready to sing Auld Lang Syne
and at the risk of starting to sound a bit greedy
we'll ask God to bless us all, please, one more time
we have never been lost
we have never been lost
we have never been lost
we've just taken the long way home
LONG WAY HOME (version 4 or 5)
January's coming to the transient hotel
where I've been staying too many nights
we strike our matches against the moon of old Chicago
and look to see how hard it's snowing in the light
When I forget to light the candles (as I do most Friday nights)
Emily comes and lights them for me
she says that I'd be lost if I didn't have her
next door to the room where I sleep
But I have never been lost
I have never been lost
I have never been lost
I've just taken the long way home
Three doors down, Levy looks about 90
and claims that he's older than that
Says he fought with Jack Johnson back in the early 20's
and was knocked out in two minutes flat
He's been at the hotel since his wife died
which was nearly two decades ago
but he says he can't leave, because when the light is just right
he can sometimes see her face in the snow
he has never been lost
he has never been lost
he has never been lost
he's just taken the long way home
The bar at the hotel has wood paneled walls
we sit in line from soprano to baritone
Emily's an alto, she drinks vodka tonic
Levy's pumping coins into the phone
so when they start up the countdown on the TV
we'll be ready to sing Auld Lang Syne
and at the risk of starting to sound a bit greedy
we'll ask God to bless us all, please, one more time
we have never been lost
we have never been lost
we have never been lost
we've just taken the long way home
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