In which combining my passions for Cricket and Music I get to share pints of plain with 2 of the greatest modern songwriters ( Guy Clark & Butch Hancock), dance like the dickens and find a motto for life :
‘…Now only two things are better than milkshakes and malts And one is dancin’ like the dickens to the West Texas Waltz’.
In 1985 I bought my first property.
A flat in Kennington, South of the River Thames.
New daily coordinates.
A three minute walk to Oval Tube Station.
A 15 minute train ride to Oxford Circus for work (Times crossword finished before Green Park).
Eight minutes walk to The Oval Cricket Ground.
The Oval is the home of the Surrey County Cricket Team and a Test Match venue.
Nothing better than to leave work early citing a vital meeting (you can get away with that when you’re the Boss) and instead catch the last couple of hours play of a county match as the late afternoon sun merged into twilight.
Five minutes walk to The Cricketers Pub (now sadly defunct) where between 1985 and 1990 I regularly drank pints of Guinness as I watched a series of brilliant performers give their all to an audience that never numbered above a couple of hundred.
The Cricketers became a home from home.
I became enough of a regular to get Kenny, who ran the bar, greet me with ‘affectionate’ South London Geezer abuse as I ordered my porter.
Pint in hand I would settle down to watch lions of English Roots music like Davey Graham, Ralph McTell and Bert Jansch give master classes in intimate performance.
I seem to remember The Pogues played a week long residency just before they hit the big time.
I say seem to remember because at Pogue’s gigs it was mandatory to drink until you would have to think very carefully indeed before answering the question if anyone asked you what your name was!
Jim, who booked the acts for The Cricketers, must have had very good taste and connections because in addition to home grown talent he also booked world class performers like Steve Earle, Nick Cave with The Birthday Party and Giant Sand.
Absolute highlights for me were the, ‘Texas Texture’ gigs where you could tune in to the Lone Star sensibility of a cult hero like Terry Allen and find that yes indeed, he was :
a panhandling, Man handlin’, Post holin’, High rollin’, Dust Bowlin’…Daddy
and metaphorically lift a can of Pearl to a Texas Treasure.
But, the gig that will always have pride of place in my memory is the one when Guy Clark and Butch Hancock brought in their being and songs the essence of the immense state of Texas to a tiny stage before a hundred folks or so in South London.
For some reason that night I was first in as the doors opened and found sitting quietly at the back sipping pints of plain none other than Guy and Butch.
It wasn’t long before I had presented them with further pints and told Guy that his Album, ‘Old No 1’ with, ‘Let Him Roll’, ‘Rita Ballou” and, ‘Desperados Waiting for a Train’ was in my Top 10 of all time.
I flat out begged him to sing, ‘Texas 1947’ which I regarded as a good as any Train Song ever written (and dear reader I can confirm that Guy did play the song for me that night).
Turning to Butch I remember saying that it was given to very few song writers to write a truly immortal song but I had no doubt that, ‘She Never Spoke Spanish to Me’was just such a song.
‘Saints and sinners all agree Spanish is a loving tongue But she never spoke Spanish to me
*
She said, “If you’re from Texas, son Then where’s your boots and where’s your gun?” I smiled and said, “I got guns, no-one can see”.
*
and said if he played the song that night I would buy him as many pints as he could drink! (and, yes, you’ve guessed it, Butch played it for me).
I also told Butch that his record, ‘West Texas Waltzes & Dust Blown Tractor Tunes’was a nigh permanent resident on my turntable and that I had framed the cover with the legend, ‘Voice, Guitar and Foot’ on my living room wall.
Again I unhesitatingly launched into some favourite lines :
‘Park your Pickups and Cadillacs, Fords and Renaults
Get up and dance like the dickens to the West Texas Waltz’
‘I count my blessings, not my faults,
I like to dance like the dickens to the West Texas Waltz’
‘…Now only two things are better than milkshakes and malts And one is dancin’ like the dickens to the West Texas Waltz’.
‘And the other is somethin’, but really it’s nothing’ to speak of it’s something to do
If you’ve done it before, youll be doin’ it some more Just as soon as the dancin’ is through’.
Sure enough when it was Butch’s turn to take the stage his opening salvo was :
Now tell me, didn’t all your aches and pains, your worries and cares, your anxiety and arthritis seem completely cured as you danced like the dickens to the West Texas Waltz!
You can hear ‘Workshirt’ Bob Dylan there and Hank Williams and Jimmy Rogers – the true troubadours of the age.
You can hear the West Texas Wind blowing across the endless plain.
You can hear the tractor engine hummin’ as it turns over the Texas soil.
You can feel the charge in the West Texas Air.
Feel the flat land and the endless Sky.
It’s a song that’s good for dancin’ and romancin’ so grab your sweetheart and jump in your car!
And if anyone asks you why you’ve got such a sloppy grin all over your face why you tell ’em it’s because you’ve been dancin’ like the dickens to The West Texas Waltz.
Now, West Texas Waltz has become something of a Texas Anthem that any right thinkin’ performer form Texas feels honour bound to play to prove their Lone Star credentials.
When Butch was growing up in Lubbock another would be songwriter, two years younger, was growing up a couple of streets away – Joe Ely.
Butch, Joe and Jimmie Dale Gilmore, would later form, ‘The Flatlanders’ a West Texas Super Group!
Swappin’ Songs would become second nature to them.
Joe Ely has always been a natural showman who can get every last drop of juice from a song.
Listen to the sheer vitality and chutzpah he brings to West Texas Waltz.
Go on – Bind up your bunions with band-aids and gauze and …..
When speakin’ of dancin’ and romancin’ the thoughts of The Jukebox invariably turn in the direction of Emmylou Harris.
And, wouldn’t you just know it, with the great Flaco Jimenez on accordion, hasn’t she recorded a deliciously dreamy version of West Texas Waltz just for me and you and every other would be love lorn West Texan.
‘…Now only two things are better than milkshakes and malts And one is dancin’ like the dickens to the West Texas Waltz’.
Clear the floor!
I will bid you adios with the man himself .
Now your Pickup might need a tune up and who knows your tractor might be actin’ up – but count your blessings, don’t count your faults.
Get out and dance like the dickens to the West Texas Waltz!
We al have days when we struggle to tell a cow from a horse.
Only one thing for it – lace up your best dancin’ shoes and waltz away those blues.
‘Cause as we all know by now ;
…. only two things are better than milkshakes and malts And one is dancin’ like the dickens to the West Texas Waltz’.
Christmas is a time when memories cascade – especially for those of us steeped in age.
Christmas, if we surrender to its spell, opens the door for the Child within to breathe again.
Music, in the form of songs we learned in our youth, when we had no sense we were learning them, invites us to be once more, once more, the wide eyed Child of days long past as counted by the turning of the Calendar’s pages.
So, let’s call upon a Jukebox favourite, Emmylou Harris, to stir that Sense of Wonder once again.
Come they told me Pa rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring Pa rum pum pum pum
Shall I play for you Pa rum pum pum pum On my drum
Oh, play it please.
Play it please, Emmylou.
Now, when I was a teenager, I became, in the way that a certain sort of teenager does, a deep dyed Francophile.
If you had asked me why I would have said, with proper teenage pomposity, it was naturellement, because of the visionary poetry of Rimbaud, the kaleidoscopic brilliance of the mind of Blaise Pascal and the mystical beauty of the films of Robert Bresson.
I would have said less about the allure of the Disque Bleu Cigarette Packet and the taste of Pastis 51.
But to tell the truth, the heart of my devotion to French Culture was to be found in my prized collection of records by the Yé-yé girls of the 1960s – France Gall, Sylvie Vartan and above all, far above all, the divine Francoise Hardy!
I could definitely hear her calling me across La Manche.
And, when she sang, in her uniquely seductive plangent tones, about the falling snow and the north wind blowing, the cool of the evening sky and the falling star, I had my own Christmas Anthem, whether anyone else recognised it as a Christmas Song or not!
It may be, after the two selections above, that some Jukebox Readers, will think the criteria for an appearance on The Alphabet Series is having a melancholy voice combined with being extremely photogenic.
Long time Readers will know that my taste is somewhat broader than that!
And, to prove it, here’s the wonderful Stanley Holloway, with one of his inimitably great recitations – masterpieces of comic character and timing.
At the same time as I was assiduously practicing the Yé-Yé Twist I was learning by heart party pieces like, ‘The Lion and Albert’, ‘Sam, Sam, Pick oop thy Musket’, ‘One Each Apiece All Round’ and ‘It’ll All be the Same (A Hundred Years from Now).
Of course, when Christmas rolled around, with a hat cocked on the side of my head and fortified by some fine fortified wine, I would launch, unstoppably into, ‘Sam’s Christmas Pudding’ in homage to the great Stanley.
I might well do it again this year!
Come on! Join In!
It was Christmas Day in the trenches In Spain in Penninsular War, And Sam Small were cleaning his musket A thing as he’d ne’re done before …
Now, weren’t that reet grand, Reet Grand.
The Alphabet Series will continue on 9/11/13/15/17/19 and 21 December.
That lucky old Sun, He got nothing to do but roll around Heaven all day.
All Day.
Now, you have lots to do.
You have goals and tasks and targets.
You have reflections and reviews to consider.
You have outcomes and KPIs to attain.
You have stratagems.
Things to do. Places to be.
Youre on the case. You’re in charge.
All day. Every Day.
Until, eventually, that lucky old Sun has rolled all around Heaven to set in The West.
Now, The Moon has dominion.
Now, you need your sleep before you can face another busy, busy Day.
And, with Sleep, unbidden, unstoppable, come The Dreams.
Everybody has them Dreams.
Dreamers find their way by Moonlight.
The Captain of the Watch and his Guards are no longer at attention – in fact they are carousing in the Town – AWOL.
And, if they should glance up from their cups all they will say is:
He is a dreamer; let us leave him : Pass.
Unfettered you slip the bonds of time and are free to wander the echoing halls of memory.
Free to peer into the open doors and to ascend/descend the Escher stairs to secret rooms.
Who knows who you will meet?
Perchance all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
Perchance dreams are all you will truly ever own.
Poor as you are you have your dreams.
You have your dreams.
And, you have to dream if you are to live.
Though you are nothing you have in you all the dreams of the world.
Life without dreams is a broken winged bird.
Some dreams will not survive the fluttering of your opening eyelids.
Some dreams will stay with you for ever after and permanently alter the colour of your mind.
Some dreams, though you are yet to know it, will be the last, the very last, dream of your soul.
Some dreams are nought but the gleanings of an empty heart.
An empty heart.
Why can’t I forget my past and live my life anew …
Instead, instead, instead.
Instead I’m having Sweet Dreams about you.
Sweet Dreams about you.
Don Gibson, the Nashville Laureate of Heartbreak, wrote, ‘Sweet Dreams’ in 1955 and singers have been launching it into the ether ever since.
Don put it out first but it was Faron Young who had the first Hit.
Don had another go in 1960 and emerged with a nice morose version that got even more people listening.
But, in 1963 Patsy Cline, who sang supremely in the Key of Heartbreak took the song to another dimension of feeling.
Patsy Cline had a voice that seemed to possess ancient knowing about the human heart.
Every Patsy Cline vocal is an intense drama that commands you to listen with deep attention.
Her bruised and anguished tones tell you; this is how it is and you know it too don’t you?
You might not want to admit it but Patsy makes it plain.
No good pretending.
Troublous dreams this night doth make me sad.
I should hate you the whole night through.
The whole night through.
Instead I’m having Sweet Dreams about you.
Once you’ve fallen asleep none can know what dreams may come.
Should you be grieved in the spirit visions in your head may trouble you all your live long days.
Jacob and Daniel and Joseph.
And in 1966 from Jonesville Louisiana Tommy McLain.
Tommy’s version of Sweet Dreams will play forever in your dreams from the moment you first hear it.
Surely this version was recorded direct from the soundboard of your dreaming soul.
Why cant I forget my past and live my life anew?
Why, Why, Why!
Tommy’s time banishing, heart stopping, ethereal vocal seems to surround your senses with the vibraphone adding further levels of sensual derangement.
Floyd Soileau recorded Tommy in his Ville Platte Studio but was not convinced this version would sell.
He changed his mind when it was reported to him by the owner of a local bordello that the song was No 1 on their Jukebox – a favourite of the working women and customers alike!
Later on as the song got picked up by national distributors and major radio stations three Million record buyers came to agree with the folks back in Ville Platte.
Emmylou Harris (a firm Jukebox favourite) has always found the sweet heart of any song she chooses to sing.
There’s an ache in her voice that it is even more emotionally affecting now that her hair has turned to silver and her knowledge of the trials of the world has deepened.
Here, live with The Nash Ramblers she sings like the angel always out of sight in your dreams.
The one you hope will return to those dreams again.
The one you could listen to the whole night through.
The whole night through.
Some dreams don’t need words.
Some yearnings cry out beyond syllables.
Roy Buchanan made his Guitar sound your deepest dreams.
Now some will tell you this is because he played a 53 Fender Telecaster and some will wax lyrical about overtones and pinched harmonics.
Maybe. Maybe.
Yet, there is something in Roy’s playing that’s undreamt of in philosophy or guitar manuals.
When he plays like this the valleys are exalted and the hills and mountains made low.
When he plays like this the hills and mountains are made low.
When he plays like this the rough places are made plain.
When he plays like this the crooked places are made straight.
Lately, it seems that whenever I open a Newspaper or Magazine there’s a sober article warning that there is a, ‘Sleep Crisis’ which is increasingly manifested in physical and mental ill health.
People, working all hours and glued to glowing digital devices into the wee hours just aren’t getting enough shuteye!
I read such Jeremiads with much personal puzzlement.
I have never had any problem in sleeping 8 hours or more every night.
Some people have asked me how do I manage this?
Well, my infallible technique is to lie down on a reasonably flat surface and close my eyes!
Sleep follows within a minute – so long as there isn’t prolonged gunfire or searchlights trained directly at me I’m off in a trice.
Drinking alcohol or coffee doesn’t make any difference either.
When it’s time to sleep – I sleep.
Learning of how unusual this appears to be I am grateful for my good fortune.
I tip my hat to The Sandman.
Of course, on The Jukebox, I’ll do far more than that.
I’ll serenade him in jubilant song.
Let’s start with the charming, chiming, circle of fifths, Chordettes from 1954.
He also fell in love with and married Janet Ertel.
Archie was a canny cove who had been a professional musician/arranger/Bandleader since tne early 1930s.
To capitalise on his musical and business smarts he founded Cadence Records in 1952. His biggest sellers on the label were Rock ‘n Roll Immortals The Everly Brothers.
Archie became Phil Everley’s father in law when Phil married Janet Ertel’s daughter from her first marriage.
The Cadence cash registers were also kept busy counting up the hits from Johnny Tillotson and Lenny Welch.
Mr Sandman benefit from an airy menthol cool production featuring percussion by Archie Rhythmically slapping his knees!
It’s one of those records that instantly calls to mind the I Like Ike American 1950s.
I suspect the, ‘You Never Can Tell ‘ couple from a recent Jukebox post sashayed to this one in their two room appartment.
The great guitar stylist Chet Atkins cut a distinctive, characteristically fluid, instrumental version in November 1954 which gave him his first solo hit on the Country Music Charts.
Here’s Chet fleet fingers playing the song live.
Now, loyal Jukeboxers will have guessed by now that I have more than a penchant for the divine Emmylou Harris.
In addition to her beauty and glorious musicality she is a Jukebox Star because she has exquisite taste across myriad genres.
Emmylou knows a good song when she hears one and she has the knack of making familiar tunes fresh through the purity of her vocals and the carefully chosen musicians she plays with.
Here she is magic beaming all our hearts away.
Roses and Clover. Roses and Clover.
Well there can’t be any doubt about who I’m choosing for Prom Queen!
Emmylou had a multi tracked vocal version solo hit with Mr Sandman but she first recorded it with her sisters in music Linda Ronstadt and Dolly Parton for their wonderful ‘Trio’ project.
Unfortunately the Corporate Dudes at Warner Chappel aren’t keen on any of their versions of Mr Sandman escaping their clutches so I’ll leave you to search out that ambrosial version for yourselves.
I’ll leave you with a perfectly peach instrumental version from yet another Wizard from New Orleans – Snooks Eaglin.
May you all get a good night’s nurturing sleep filled with inspiring dreams.
Chuck was, of course, a writer of both inspiration and deliberation.
There’s immense craft in the song.
The story is told in four short verses.
‘C’est la vie say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell’ is an arresting and immediately memorable lyric hook neatly and beautifully rhythmically encapsulating the moral of the song.
The AAAA Rhyme scheme is used with finesse and wit building up rhyme by rhyme a complete picture of the situation.
Chuck delights in marrying his New Orleans Creole Rhythm with a French name for teenage spouse, Pierre, and playfully using both madamoiselle and Madame, in the correct order, to signify that the truly in love couple have indeed rung the chapel bell.
So, married life begins with a well stocked Collerator just crammed with those dinners they wolfed while watching their favourite shows. I wouldn’t be surprised if they mixed that ginger ale with something a little more potent!
I was delighted to discover that ‘Coolerator’ was a genuine brand name (see image below) and that the refrigerators were manufactured in Duluth – making it certain that they would have been known to Bob Dylan and very likely stocked in the family electricals store.
It was a teenage wedding, and the old folks wished them well You could see that Pierre did truly love the mademoiselle And now the young monsieur and madame have rung the chapel bell “C’est la vie”, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell
They furnished off an apartment with a two room Roebuck sale The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale But when Pierre found work, the little money comin’ worked out well “C’est la vie”, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell
They had a hi-fi phono, boy, did they let it blast
Seven hundred little records, all rock, rhythm and jazz
But when the sun went down, the rapid tempo of the music fell
“C’est la vie”, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell
They bought a souped-up jitney, ’twas a cherry red ’53 They drove it down to Orleans to celebrate the anniversary It was there that Pierre was married to the lovely mademoiselle “C’est la vie”, say the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell
Chuck always delighted in his references to US Car Culture and I have to admit that from the first moment I heard You Never Can Tell I sorely longed for a ‘Cherry Red ‘53’!
But, I surely did get me a fine Hi Fi Phono and boy, as all my neighbours will tell you, did I let it blast!
And, taking pride of place among my 700 or so 45s there will always be a high stack of Chuck Berry singles.
Because he was the greatest songwriter of the primal Rock ‘n’ Roll era and because nothing lifts the spirits like three minutes of prime Chuck Berry!
Consider that You Never Can Tell was preceded by, ‘No Particular Place To Go’ and succeeeded by, ‘Promised Land’ – a run of classics that would have worthily constituted a lifetime’s achievement for another songwriter/performer.
I should draw your attention to the glorious piano playing of Johnnie Johnson for once foregrounded in this song.
Released from dramatic guitar playing duties Chuck concentrates his genius on his sly and smooth vocal.
Of course, it was a given that once a new Chuck Berry song hit the airwaves and Jukeboxes that a flood of cover versions would appear.
So many to choose from for our Immortal Jukebox!
Let’s kick off with Emmylou Harris and her aptly named Hot Band more than kicking up their heels!
Emmylou and Co hit that shuffle rhythm from the get go don’t they.
Glenn D Hardin on piano and Hank Devito add colour with England’s own Albert Lee providing the stellar guitar.
What an apprenticeship in the big time this was for the young Rodney Crowell!
Naturellement he was in love with Emmylou – putting him in company with all red blooded music fans of the time!
Now we let the arm come down on something really special.
You want a demonstration and distillation of the spirit of Rock ‘n’ Roll?
My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen and Jukebox afficianados the whole world over I give you the one and only Ronnie Lane with Slim Chance!
Now that’s a New Orleans second line party!
That’s ginger ale laced with the very finest bourbon!
That makes the big toe in your boot shoot straight up to the sky!
Every time Ronnie Lane strapped on his bass and stepped to the microphone he put his whole heart and soul into his performances exuding sheer glee in the music he was making.
The same holds true for Bruce Springsteen.
I love this version of You Never Can Tell from Leipzig in 2013.
Bruce takes the crowd request and coaches the initially sceptical Band until they produce a wonderfully ragged celebration of Chuck Berry’s anthem.
Chuck Berry will always be the heartbeat of Rock ‘n’ Roll.
Thank God apostles like Bruce Springsteen, Ronnie Lane and Emmylou Harris ensured that the message still resounds.
And, even today, somewhere in Chicago or Cairo someone is saying – you know we could really do a killer version of that Chuck Berry ‘C’est La Vie’ song.
It goes to show you never can tell where a great song will end up except that it will surely keep traveling on.
Out on the perilous deep
Where dangers silently creep
I’m gonna die today.
29 last month.
And, I’m gonna die today.
Consider this my last letter.
About 12 hours from now I’m gonna take that slow walk.
To The Chair.
To The Chair.
I been drifting too far from the shore for a long time now.
Drifting too far.
Counting down the hours sets your mind thinking all right.
Mine goes back to the beginning.
A cabin in the Piney Woods.
Listening to the radio at night with the moon and stars shining through the windows and ol’ Bill Monroe (with Mama’s harmony) singing me to sleep.
Ain’t no one sing like Bill.
Today, the Tempest rose high,
And clouds o’ershadow the sky
There’s many a guy in here who’ll look you straight in the eye and tell you they is innocent.
Not one of them telling the truth.
Well, not me.
Not me.
I’m here because I killed a man.
Shot him twice through the heart.
Caught him carrying on with my wife.
Glad I done it.
Ain’t no reprieve from The Governor coming.
Just counting down the hours.
Counting down the hours.
Eight hours now.
Eight hours.
Drifting too far from the shore.
Drifting too far.
Can’t get that song out of my head.
Come to Jesus today,
Let Him show you the way
Padre came.
Told me all about repentance and forgiveness.
Told me all about tender mercies waiting for me.
Mama would have said the same.
Jesus name was never very far from her lips.
Just tidying up she would be singing, ‘Kneel At The Cross’ or, ‘Just A Closer Walk’.
She was a true believer.
True believer.
Never did take with me.
No, when you go.
You go.
No Sun. No Moon.
No Heaven. No Hell.
Black earth and the worms.
Four hours now.
Four hours.
Still, I sure would like to hear Mama sing Drifting Too Far one more time.
No one forgets their Mama’s voice.
No One.
One more time Mama – as I drift further and further away.
Further and further away.
Sure death is hovering nigh,
You’re drifting too far from shore
Well, I had my steak and eggs.
Everybody’s lined up.
Lined up to take me away.
Minutes not hours now.
Minutes not hours.
Drifting too far from the shore.
Drifting too far.
I’m gonna stand up straight and walk with my head up.
Ain’t gonna cry or scream.
Keep my eyes open wide when they shave my legs and head.
Can’t get that song out of my head.
This time.
This last time it’s Hank Williams I hear.
He never made it to thirty too.
If there’s one man who looked over the River of Death then it has to be Hank.
He walked with Death all his life.
Walk with me now Hank.
Walk with me.
Hold my hand Hank.
Hold my hand.
Hold …
Notes:
If you want to assess the influence and reach of Drifting Too Far From The Shore consider this statement from Bob Dylan The Keeper of American Song:
Maybe when I was about ten, I started playing the guitar. I found a guitar… in the house that my father bought, actually.
I found something else in there, it was kind of mystical overtones. There was a great big mahogany radio, that had a 78 turntable–when you opened up the top.
And I opened it up one day and there was a record on there–country record–a song called “Drifting Too Far From The Shore.”
The sound of the record made me feel like I was somebody else …
that I was maybe not even born to the right parents or something.”
Bill Monroe – the Father of Bluegrass and one of the greatest figures in 20th Century music first recorded Drifting Too Far with his brother Charlie in the 1930s.
I like to think this was the mystical version that opened up Bob’s head!
The RCA/Bluebird recordings of The Monroe Brothers are eternal treasures.
Boone Creek – featured the wonderful high tenor voice of Ricky Scaggs and the Dobro King, Jerry Douglas.
Their late 70s recordings, ‘Boone Creek’ on Rounder and, ‘One Way Track’ on Sugarhill glow with passion.
Emmylou Harris – Her luminous version of Drifting Too Far is from her, ‘Angel Band’ collection of Country Gospel songs.
Hank Williams – His version was unreleased during his lifetime. One thing I can say – you can never have too many Hank Williams records.
Music by The Voice Squad, Patty Griffin and Emmylou Harris
Our Nativity painting today is by a great Master from Sienna, Duccio Di Buoninsegna.
Since I first discovered the work of Duccio as a teenager I have been in thrall to the luminous beauty of his works.
His paintings seem to me to have been deeply pondered in his heart which gives them qualities of stillness and humility which I find overwhelmingly moving.
In particular, something about, ‘Duccio Blue’ sets my heart aflame.
For music to take you away from the daily tumult I offer you a precious work of the heart.
‘A Stor mo Chroi’ as performed by The Voice Squad (Phil Callery, Fran McPhail and Gerry Cullen) insists that we each attend to what is truly important in all our lives; the love we offer and the love we share.
Where else is your treasure to be found?
Onward!
We are nearing the end of our journey now with our Sleigh still moving forward following a star.
As you approach the end of any journey there is space for reflection on the path already traveled and anticipation of the welcome to be found at the destination.
The Holy Family, weary and anxious about the straitened circumstances surrounding the impending birth of Jesus had to hold on and have faith that somehow all would be well and they would be a family.
Above all Mary had to have faith that her encounter with the heavenly realm at the annunciation and the event foretold by the Angel Gabriel was miraculously true and that she would indeed be a mother to a saviour (though one she would have to nurse and nurture like any other human child).
There would have been no Christmas birth without Mary’s assent at the Annunciation. From that leap of faith heaven and earth became joined and history eternally altered.
Mary was in a very real sense the first disciple: accepting God’s call and following it never knowing the joys and sorrows it would entail as her son too accepted his destiny.
I was an altar server from the age of seven and I can still recite the responses to the Latin mass if I close my eyes.
I can also recall the way certain prayers had a profound impact on me that was probably based more on their literary and musical cadences than any theological understanding given my youth.
The prayer that always moved me the most was the Loreto Litany Of Mary, the reciting of which even in an almost empty church seemed to set up a palpable spiritual vibration in my being.
‘Mother most admirable, Mother of good Counsel, Mother of our Creator, Mother of our Saviour, …. Mirror of Justice, Seat of wisdom, Cause of our joy, Spiritual vessel, vessel of honour ….. Mystical rose, Tower of David, Tower of ivory, House of gold ……. ‘
Those flowing phrases will never leave me.
Now a music choice which shares the Litany’s hypnotic attraction.
From Patty Griffin, one of the brim full jars of American song, ‘Mary’.
I spoke earlier about nursing and nurturing and I can think of no more apposite artist to express those qualities than Emmylou Harris as she invokes in, ‘Light Of The Stable’ the glorious mystery which kindled a light which still burns bright today some two thousand years and more since it first shone in Bethlehem.
The poem today is, ‘Christmas Night’ by a contemporary English poet, Lawrence Sail.
‘On the wind, a drifting echo Of simple songs. In the city the streetlamps, haloed innocents, click into instant sleep. The darkness at last breathes.
In dreams of wholeness, irony is a train melting to distance; and the word, a delighted child Gazing in safety at a star solid as flesh.
‘I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river is a strong brown god – sullen, untamed and intractable,
Patient to some degree, at first recognised as a frontier;
Useful, untrustworthy, as a conveyor of commerce;
Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges.
The problem once solved, the brown god is almost forgotten
By the dwellers in cities – ever, however, implacable,
Keeping his seasons and rages, destroyer, reminder
Of what men choose to forget. Unhonoured, unpropitiated
By the worshippers of the machine, but waiting, watching and waiting.’
(T. S. Eliot – ‘The Dry Salvages’)
The river is a strong brown god.
In our lives we all have many rivers to cross. And, so often, we can’t seem to find our way over. Over to the land of milk and honey. Over to the land of lost content. Over to the home we are sure is there waiting, waiting.
So filled now with hope, now with faith, now firm in resolve, now lost and abandoned without hope or faith or resolve we stand silent and shivering on the river bank. Wondering will I ever cross over and what will await me when I do?
The river is a strong brown god.
Beside a river man is a paltry thing despite all the majesty of our boats and bridges. The river ran before man ever drew breath and will run and run long after our last breath.
The river is a strong brown god.
And, we are attracted to the power and mystery of rivers even as we fear their mystery and power. And, sometimes the river, in spate and flood, asserts its power and authority and reminds us brutally that beside a river man is a paltry thing.
A river, in flood and spate, can, in a moment, sweep away our idle dreams of the future and leave us chastened, bereft, beached and fearful of rivers for the rest of our lives.
The river is a strong brown god.
Merle Haggard know this. Merle has always seemed to me have the far away look of a man who knows how unfair and brutal life can be. A man who learned hard lessons in youth which he can never dismiss or deny.
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A man who does not flinch to tell uncomfortable truths. A man who honed his craft as a songwriter so that his songs seem like the folk takes or fables we use to illustrate the wisdom of the race.
And, being the great songwriter and performer he is in 1995 he recorded my favourite river song, ‘Kern River’, a song as deep and mysterious as a river. A song filled with flinty, implacable power.
A song which has eddied and swirled through my imagination since the first time I fell under the current of its spell. It still runs through my dreams.
In a few short verses of spare telling detail delivered with a measured, dry-eyed, rueful tone Merle sums up a life stalled and cauterised by sudden trauma. Sudden trauma, when a river’s swiftness swept the love of a man’s life away.
On one side of the river life on the other death. Oblivious the river, Kern River, flows on. And, when your life has been cleft in two; into before and after what can you be sure of now?
Only that a river can be mean, meaner than you ever imagined. All you can be sure of now is that you will never, never, swim Kern River again. Oh, it may be that drowning may still be your fate for a man can’t escape his fate wherever he is, wherever he escapes to.
We all have an appointment in Samarra or Lake Shasta and you can drown in still water just as you can drown in a raging torrent.
Now, he is alone, a shattered survivor, weightless like chaff in the wind to be swept up into the mountains. Now he stares ahead remembering the town he grew up in where the oil flowed though his gusher never came in.
Now, as the hours and days fall like soft sift through the hourglass he remembers his lost love, his best friend, who he must live without for all the hours and days his life has left. All the hours and days he has left.
All around him the mountains remind him that beside nature man is a paltry thing. And that the river is a strong brown god. So he may cross, with care on the highway but he will never swim Kern River again.
Merle Haggard’s, ‘Kern River’ is a masterpiece from an American master. A song whose depths can never be sounded.
It takes up its place on The Immortal Jukebox as A15
Though nothing can match the Homeric authority of Merle’s own take on, ‘Kern River’ the song has attracted fellow songwriters and singers who know that it is a song of rare power.
Listen here to Dave Alvin’s meditative live in the studio version which has a lovely flow.
Dave Alvin, a mighty songwriter in his own right, has always listened closely to the masters of American song and it is clear that he has learned how to allow the power of a true song to flow through his guitar and his voice.
Emmylou Harris has spent decades mining the songbook of American roots music. To each of these treasures she brings the tender beauty of her voice and her unerring knack of finding superb musicians to make the songs come alive in performance.
Below, with The Red Dirt Boys she brings a dreamy, revival meeting by the river, passion to the song. You might believe for an instant that the river would be lulled and stilled.
Yet, we know the river can never really be propitiated. It will flow and flow on no matter how lovely the song sung on its banks.
The river is a strong brown god.
Notes:
Kern River was the title track of a CD Merle issued in 1995.
Dave Alvin has recorded the song on a lovely multi artist tribute CD to Merle called, ‘Tulare Dust’ and also on his own wonderful, ‘West of the West’
Emmylou Harris’ version can be found on her, ‘All That I Intended To Be’
The Immortal Jukebox 