Oh, Holly, I know I've been such a fool
The lies that I told 'bout us both growin' old
I can't undo
Oh, Holly, it's been years since we spoke
But I love you the same as I did
Before your heart broke
I took you for granted so long
Thought that I needed to just be alone
But I was wrong
Cars covered in snow asleep by the pool
I gave up the bottle
Just like I gave up on you
I found me another hotel and a girl to lay with
I still can't fix sinks
No better than I ever did
Holly, I see you were right
The things that I done--
We'll never be right again
But I still dream of days, me and you
In a park where the water runs blue
And music floats out of gazebos
Oh, Holly, my love, on this Christmas Eve
If I were to come back to you
Would you ask me to leave?
Holly, I see you were right
The things that I done--
We'll never be right again
Tell me you dream of a day
In a park where our children will play
And gazebos play music for me and you
I do
Over Christmas I revisited one of my favorite collections of short stories, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, by Raymond Carver. Carver isn't for everyone--it's very minimalist writing and requires you to fill in a lot of the blanks on your own--but if you can give it an honest chance I think you'll enjoy his style. Anyway, I was told recently I should write a X'mas song, which, even though I knew it was a preposterous idea, I thought it might be a good way to kill time over the holidays. After having read Carver's "Gazebo," a tragic story about the demise of Duane's and Holly's relationship, a couple who try in their own dysfunctional way to run a hotel, I decided to write from Duane's perspective and see where the two might be years down the line. Does Duane still love Holly? Has Holly forgiven him? Where are their lives now? Holly has that certain yuletide ring to it, hence the loose Christmas nod, but other than that it's just a simple story-song. It's a simple chord progression, in the key of C, played in a country 3/4 waltz. This is the first draft. It needs a lot of work, but I thought I'd get what I have out of my Moleskine notebook and onto my computer screen. I'll get some audio up one of these days...
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Monday, December 22, 2008
yes, michele, there is a santa claus
we lived in the country
when i was in first and
second grades.
mariaville, ny
was the name of the town.
i've been back there since
and it's not that far away
from schenectady,
where i grew up,
but back then
it seemed far
far
far away.
our school was about a mile
(felt like ten)
from home
and there was a general store
down the road that sold
penny candy and
and rubber worms and
baseball cards
and really what else
is there when you're seven?
girls in pigtails?
there were also always lots of
motorcycles vrooming by
driven by men
in black leather
and women who held on tight
with their long hair flowing
behind them.
sometimes the locals
would yell out,
"show us your tits!"
and they would,
but that's for another time.
our house
was a wobbly ranch-style affair,
white with yellow trim,
at the top of a gravel road.
at the bottom was a lake
filled with carp
and neighborhood kids
and casted lines.
in the summertime
wild strawberries popped up
in the grass around our house
and in the winter it was quiet.
i read sherlock holmes stories
and tried not to knock
into the kerosene heater.
that first christmas
santa came.
i don't know how or why
but that's the story
they keep telling me.
my sister michele awoke
in the middle of the night
to use the bathroom
and swears
to this day!
that she saw santa claus
dressed in his red suit
stacking presents
under our tree.
the next day
there was a carrot
on the kitchen table
bearing the imprint of teeth
and sled marks in the otherwise
untouched snow outside.
but i'd been reading holmes
so i knew to be skeptical
of such things.
the one thing i can't
disprove to this day
is that my sister still
claims she saw santa
himself
in the jolly flesh
crouched under our tree.
might my step-dad have dressed
up for the occasion?
possibly.
but bill loved elvis, too--
how many fictional characters
can one man believe in?
this year
i'm going to ask michele
to recount her tale again.
there must be something
i'm missing,
a hole in her story.
after all,
we had to move the next year
because things didn't work out
in mariaville.
if there was a
santa, he couldn't
fit happiness under the tree,
i guess.
when i was in first and
second grades.
mariaville, ny
was the name of the town.
i've been back there since
and it's not that far away
from schenectady,
where i grew up,
but back then
it seemed far
far
far away.
our school was about a mile
(felt like ten)
from home
and there was a general store
down the road that sold
penny candy and
and rubber worms and
baseball cards
and really what else
is there when you're seven?
girls in pigtails?
there were also always lots of
motorcycles vrooming by
driven by men
in black leather
and women who held on tight
with their long hair flowing
behind them.
sometimes the locals
would yell out,
"show us your tits!"
and they would,
but that's for another time.
our house
was a wobbly ranch-style affair,
white with yellow trim,
at the top of a gravel road.
at the bottom was a lake
filled with carp
and neighborhood kids
and casted lines.
in the summertime
wild strawberries popped up
in the grass around our house
and in the winter it was quiet.
i read sherlock holmes stories
and tried not to knock
into the kerosene heater.
that first christmas
santa came.
i don't know how or why
but that's the story
they keep telling me.
my sister michele awoke
in the middle of the night
to use the bathroom
and swears
to this day!
that she saw santa claus
dressed in his red suit
stacking presents
under our tree.
the next day
there was a carrot
on the kitchen table
bearing the imprint of teeth
and sled marks in the otherwise
untouched snow outside.
but i'd been reading holmes
so i knew to be skeptical
of such things.
the one thing i can't
disprove to this day
is that my sister still
claims she saw santa
himself
in the jolly flesh
crouched under our tree.
might my step-dad have dressed
up for the occasion?
possibly.
but bill loved elvis, too--
how many fictional characters
can one man believe in?
this year
i'm going to ask michele
to recount her tale again.
there must be something
i'm missing,
a hole in her story.
after all,
we had to move the next year
because things didn't work out
in mariaville.
if there was a
santa, he couldn't
fit happiness under the tree,
i guess.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
guns and garland
when i was ten
i wanted a red ryder bb gun
for x'mas,
just like ralphy.
i wasn't a boy
who liked guns
necessarily
but something about that red ryder
appealed to me
in a way i can't explain.
i was a careful
ten year old--
i wasn't too worried
about poking my eye out, kid.
and my mom
usually let me do
whatever i wanted anyway.
my mom's boyfrend
at the time
was jim.
jim had beady black eyes
a thin mustache sharp as a blade
and wore a camouflage hat
all the time.
jim was obsessed
with picking lint off the floor
and being angry all the time.
he enjoyed yelling
and making threats
with his belt,
which twice daily tore through his belt loops
with the sound of thunder.
but even more than lint and fury,
jim was obsessed with war;
jim liked ww2
the way i liked the yankees.
jim had grenades in our attic
bayonets in our attic
rocket launchers in our attic
jim had mannequins in our attic.
mannequins of nazis
dressed in nazi uniforms.
in our attic.
vintage from head to toe:
from socks to underwear
to helmets and rifles.
all gear once stolen
off the backs of dead men.
in our attic.
so guns were around
and i wanted a gun.
which i got one x'mas.
i can't remember anything else
about that particular year
as far as what i awoke to
under our glimmering artificial tree
but i did get that bb gun.
it came in a long box
and with it
5 or 6
packages of bbs.
i hugged a gun that x'mas morning,
just as jesus would have wanted me to on his birthday.
that day, and for the next week
after that
i prowled my grandmother's yard
and filled her with worry while
i tucked that well-oiled stock
into the crook of my arm and
sighted down the blue-steel barrel and
shot at tin cans
and a dying pear tree
and a weary garage with busted-out windows.
my friend jason came over
and we took turns
standing out there in the snow.
i still liked my books and drawing pad and ron guidry model baseball glove
better,
but i can't lie,
i loved my new red ryder bb gun.
right after new years
i came home from school one day
to find our apartment
had been broken into.
there was a tv missing
and some other stuff
that i don't recall because
i was ten.
besides, i was too upset about my own loss:
my red ryder bb gun had been taken,
stolen out from under our glimmering artificial tree.
i never liked that gun anyway,
i told myself.
it never felt as though it were mine
the way i felt about books
drawing pads
and my ron guidry model baseball glove.
shiny toys weren't real
the way paper and pencils were.
that whole saying about
if it's too good to be true?
i should have known better;
in fact i did.
later, years later,
my mother admitted to me
that right from the beginning
she was sure jim
had broken in and stolen
our tv
and the other stuff i don't
recall 'cause i was ten,
and my red ryder bb gun.
i didn't ask her why.
there was no real answer why
or else we might have known why
he picked lint
off the floor
and threatened us with his belt
and called me and my sisters
awful names
and once got caught
stealing ivory soap from a supermarket.
jim gave me a red rdyder bb gun for x'mas.
jim stole it from me by mlk day.
i hated that motherfucker;
my mom married him the following year.
sad as i was to have stolen by my to-be dad
our tv
and some other stuff i don't recall
'cause i was ten
and my red ryder bb gun
on x'mas day
this turned out to not even be
our worst x'mas with jim.
jim saved the best for last.
jim, if you're out there,
i hope you have a miserable holiday season.
you asshole.
i wanted a red ryder bb gun
for x'mas,
just like ralphy.
i wasn't a boy
who liked guns
necessarily
but something about that red ryder
appealed to me
in a way i can't explain.
i was a careful
ten year old--
i wasn't too worried
about poking my eye out, kid.
and my mom
usually let me do
whatever i wanted anyway.
my mom's boyfrend
at the time
was jim.
jim had beady black eyes
a thin mustache sharp as a blade
and wore a camouflage hat
all the time.
jim was obsessed
with picking lint off the floor
and being angry all the time.
he enjoyed yelling
and making threats
with his belt,
which twice daily tore through his belt loops
with the sound of thunder.
but even more than lint and fury,
jim was obsessed with war;
jim liked ww2
the way i liked the yankees.
jim had grenades in our attic
bayonets in our attic
rocket launchers in our attic
jim had mannequins in our attic.
mannequins of nazis
dressed in nazi uniforms.
in our attic.
vintage from head to toe:
from socks to underwear
to helmets and rifles.
all gear once stolen
off the backs of dead men.
in our attic.
so guns were around
and i wanted a gun.
which i got one x'mas.
i can't remember anything else
about that particular year
as far as what i awoke to
under our glimmering artificial tree
but i did get that bb gun.
it came in a long box
and with it
5 or 6
packages of bbs.
i hugged a gun that x'mas morning,
just as jesus would have wanted me to on his birthday.
that day, and for the next week
after that
i prowled my grandmother's yard
and filled her with worry while
i tucked that well-oiled stock
into the crook of my arm and
sighted down the blue-steel barrel and
shot at tin cans
and a dying pear tree
and a weary garage with busted-out windows.
my friend jason came over
and we took turns
standing out there in the snow.
i still liked my books and drawing pad and ron guidry model baseball glove
better,
but i can't lie,
i loved my new red ryder bb gun.
right after new years
i came home from school one day
to find our apartment
had been broken into.
there was a tv missing
and some other stuff
that i don't recall because
i was ten.
besides, i was too upset about my own loss:
my red ryder bb gun had been taken,
stolen out from under our glimmering artificial tree.
i never liked that gun anyway,
i told myself.
it never felt as though it were mine
the way i felt about books
drawing pads
and my ron guidry model baseball glove.
shiny toys weren't real
the way paper and pencils were.
that whole saying about
if it's too good to be true?
i should have known better;
in fact i did.
later, years later,
my mother admitted to me
that right from the beginning
she was sure jim
had broken in and stolen
our tv
and the other stuff i don't
recall 'cause i was ten,
and my red ryder bb gun.
i didn't ask her why.
there was no real answer why
or else we might have known why
he picked lint
off the floor
and threatened us with his belt
and called me and my sisters
awful names
and once got caught
stealing ivory soap from a supermarket.
jim gave me a red rdyder bb gun for x'mas.
jim stole it from me by mlk day.
i hated that motherfucker;
my mom married him the following year.
sad as i was to have stolen by my to-be dad
our tv
and some other stuff i don't recall
'cause i was ten
and my red ryder bb gun
on x'mas day
this turned out to not even be
our worst x'mas with jim.
jim saved the best for last.
jim, if you're out there,
i hope you have a miserable holiday season.
you asshole.
Friday, December 19, 2008
beautiful, in the belly of america
the strangled
voices of angels
scream!
from the throats
of ancient mountains
cut against the cobalt
sky
somewhere
in the belly of america.
she's so beautiful,
isn't she?
the way she dies
like that?
with her rippling ridges, and old covered bridges,
windswept prairies and cloud-kissed cities?
yet
nothing dies
quite like december
in the sunburned arms
of summer.
arise!
it's the sleeping man
afraid of losing
who never sees the world.
voices of angels
scream!
from the throats
of ancient mountains
cut against the cobalt
sky
somewhere
in the belly of america.
she's so beautiful,
isn't she?
the way she dies
like that?
with her rippling ridges, and old covered bridges,
windswept prairies and cloud-kissed cities?
yet
nothing dies
quite like december
in the sunburned arms
of summer.
arise!
it's the sleeping man
afraid of losing
who never sees the world.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Christmas Time is Here
My guitar and I reconnected last night. I can't go into the details--I don't kiss and tell--but we were happy to see one another again :)
Also last night was my favorite Christmas show, "A Charlie Brown Christmas"--followed closely by It's a Wonderful Life; okay, so maybe those are the only two I like, but that's besides the point... About two weeks ago I checked to see when it was on and set it to record. I didn't watch it yet--I had rehearsal and a bunch of other stuff to do--but I will soon. I am not alone in my love of "A Charlie Brown Christmas," so there is no need for my commentary on what makes it so great. But a large reason why is "Christmas Time is Here." If that is not the most melancholy song ever, I don't know what is. The song is so quiet, so vulnerable, so sad, so full of yearning, and so blue, the color of a winter sky around 5am, when the rest of the world is still asleep. It's one of those songs that I probably won't ever learn on guitar because then all the mystique will be taken from it. It won't be magical any longer, but merely a succession of chords and notes and melodic patterns.
Watch this clip for yourself; if you feel nothing, you must not have a pulse:
Aside from the music, note Linus's speech at the end, when he tells his friends the story of Christmas--something that overtly religious would never make it to prime-time television if it were released today.
Also last night was my favorite Christmas show, "A Charlie Brown Christmas"--followed closely by It's a Wonderful Life; okay, so maybe those are the only two I like, but that's besides the point... About two weeks ago I checked to see when it was on and set it to record. I didn't watch it yet--I had rehearsal and a bunch of other stuff to do--but I will soon. I am not alone in my love of "A Charlie Brown Christmas," so there is no need for my commentary on what makes it so great. But a large reason why is "Christmas Time is Here." If that is not the most melancholy song ever, I don't know what is. The song is so quiet, so vulnerable, so sad, so full of yearning, and so blue, the color of a winter sky around 5am, when the rest of the world is still asleep. It's one of those songs that I probably won't ever learn on guitar because then all the mystique will be taken from it. It won't be magical any longer, but merely a succession of chords and notes and melodic patterns.
Watch this clip for yourself; if you feel nothing, you must not have a pulse:
Aside from the music, note Linus's speech at the end, when he tells his friends the story of Christmas--something that overtly religious would never make it to prime-time television if it were released today.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Martins
Before anything else, I have found myself really liking the new Coldplay song, "Lost!" And yes, there really is an exclamation point in the title. I have yet to hear the whole album, but I see the closing track is called, "Lost?" Hmmm. Without even hearing the question-marked "Lost" I can say that I like the idea. Anyway, there is something about the former that really appeals to me. I can assure you it's not from watching Mr. Paltrow and his mates perform it live on SNL; quite the contrary, in fact. But it sounds fantastic in the car. Just a good tune.
As for my tunes, I have noticed a weird trend in the last week. Outside of a couple of minutes on Friday night, I have not taken my Martin out of it's cases since Thursday at Hill Country. And I am not sure why. Well, one tangible reason is that my new MacBook Pro has been occupying a lot of my time as I am figuring out all of its new tricks and how I can get it to make music with me. But the wooden, organic music-making tool, one that has helped me write almost every JH song to date, sits unattended to in it's case on my living room floor. I look at it sometimes, but I am not sure what I want to say with it. Just as when I run into a stretch of writer's block and know to simply wait it out and trust my instincts, I also go through periods of disassociation with my trusty guitar. Leading up to this weekend, I had begun to notice that I kept sounding too much like me whenever my fingers tried to conjure music from the strings. Everything felt stale, as though I were beginning to cover myself instead of channeling new inspiration. I don't have an electric guitar these days, for now, but if I did I would probably have busted it out by now and tried to write on something sonically different than my Martin.
The good news is twofold. One, I believe it is important that a writer puts his tool of the trade down once in a while and takes time to see, feel, explore, process, and make sense of the world going on around him. Basically, writers need material, and material comes from living, from stepping out from behind the piano, the easel, the cutting board, the sewing machine, the notebook, the whatever. So for that reason I am almost glad that I have taken a breather. But now that a few days have passed, I can feel that yearning inside me again--on my way out the door today I remember glancing back over my shoulder at my black guitar case leaning against the couch. I wanted to play it; I had something new to say, perhaps.
Or maybe I had begun to forget what music sounded like coming from my fingers, and maybe I had begun to miss that music. Either way, I'll find out tonight at rehearsal. I am already looking forward to it.
As for my tunes, I have noticed a weird trend in the last week. Outside of a couple of minutes on Friday night, I have not taken my Martin out of it's cases since Thursday at Hill Country. And I am not sure why. Well, one tangible reason is that my new MacBook Pro has been occupying a lot of my time as I am figuring out all of its new tricks and how I can get it to make music with me. But the wooden, organic music-making tool, one that has helped me write almost every JH song to date, sits unattended to in it's case on my living room floor. I look at it sometimes, but I am not sure what I want to say with it. Just as when I run into a stretch of writer's block and know to simply wait it out and trust my instincts, I also go through periods of disassociation with my trusty guitar. Leading up to this weekend, I had begun to notice that I kept sounding too much like me whenever my fingers tried to conjure music from the strings. Everything felt stale, as though I were beginning to cover myself instead of channeling new inspiration. I don't have an electric guitar these days, for now, but if I did I would probably have busted it out by now and tried to write on something sonically different than my Martin.
The good news is twofold. One, I believe it is important that a writer puts his tool of the trade down once in a while and takes time to see, feel, explore, process, and make sense of the world going on around him. Basically, writers need material, and material comes from living, from stepping out from behind the piano, the easel, the cutting board, the sewing machine, the notebook, the whatever. So for that reason I am almost glad that I have taken a breather. But now that a few days have passed, I can feel that yearning inside me again--on my way out the door today I remember glancing back over my shoulder at my black guitar case leaning against the couch. I wanted to play it; I had something new to say, perhaps.
Or maybe I had begun to forget what music sounded like coming from my fingers, and maybe I had begun to miss that music. Either way, I'll find out tonight at rehearsal. I am already looking forward to it.
Friday, December 12, 2008
It was a hard December day
Last night Jo Henley played at Hill Country, a totally kick-ass BBQ joint in the heart of Manhattan. It was our first time there. Hill Country is a huge two-floor, Texas-inspired restaurant with a large stage downstairs, amazing food (so I was told--I don't eat before I sing anymore), the kindest staff, great sound, and an attentive crowd that's out to have a good time. Suffice to say, we LOVED Hill Country, and Hill Country LOVED us back, and so we'll be back there regularly from now on. Seriously, one of the best JH gigs ever, and I truly mean that.
During our third set, a young woman came to the front of the stage from a long table full of people and waved me toward her. I leaned down, and she proceeded to tell me it was her friend's 22nd birthday and could we dedicate a song to her? I said of course we could. She thanked me, and as she was about to return to her table, she paused and said her friend's name was Christine.
The song we were just about to play before that girl came to the stage was "Promised Paradise." It's about my grandmother's passing, which was two years ago to the day last night, and I was going to dedicate the song to my grandma. She meant the world to me.
We joked and made up a silly impromptu song on the spot for the birthday girl, then played her a real song. They all seemed to eat it up and thought it was the greatest thing.
A few songs later, toward the end of our third set, just before midnight, we played "Promised Paradise." I never said anything aloud to anyone about the occasion, but in my head, and my heart, I dedicated it to my grandmother.
The reason for telling this story, you ask? My grandma's name was Christine, too.
During our third set, a young woman came to the front of the stage from a long table full of people and waved me toward her. I leaned down, and she proceeded to tell me it was her friend's 22nd birthday and could we dedicate a song to her? I said of course we could. She thanked me, and as she was about to return to her table, she paused and said her friend's name was Christine.
The song we were just about to play before that girl came to the stage was "Promised Paradise." It's about my grandmother's passing, which was two years ago to the day last night, and I was going to dedicate the song to my grandma. She meant the world to me.
We joked and made up a silly impromptu song on the spot for the birthday girl, then played her a real song. They all seemed to eat it up and thought it was the greatest thing.
A few songs later, toward the end of our third set, just before midnight, we played "Promised Paradise." I never said anything aloud to anyone about the occasion, but in my head, and my heart, I dedicated it to my grandmother.
The reason for telling this story, you ask? My grandma's name was Christine, too.
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