Peter Case

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so white & dry & innocent but evil—the sweetness that creates a sucking sound—a light in every dark heart—candy lives that go down easy  attention spans that spin at the sour—the dirty truth you have to get down on your hands & knees to ride—the faint trail in the dust that leads out through the lines—white footsteps in the green wet grass straight to—SUGAR ISLAND where the deal goes down—kill for a mouthful to bury this turpentine taste—the big size drinks at the asphalt corner stand—in a big plastic sweating cup—each

After a long day worn out with the guys, rehearsing, yelling, working angles on each other and watching them develop, ducking figurative (and sometimes literal) punches, conforming and rebelling in equally stressed measure to the group think, my head doesn’t ache but my scalp is tight, my face hurts, I’m ready to go back to the second floor motel room I call home—a block and a half from the Capital Records tower—I go in and turn on the black & white—white plastic magnavox TV with the green tube & wobbly knobs—the tube

“I tour playing music for a living, have done for years and years. It used to be the records mattered, (and they still do to me and a few others), but basically for most people they seem like an adjunct to the concert line, now. Once upon a time music was a gateway to the forbidden world, to magic, the invisible, to danger too… and the extent to which that is still true is a measure of its worth as a calling. It can’t be about the money. It’s gotta be about love, spells, the feel, where you get ’em,

Peter Case: On The Way Downtown:

Recorded Live On FolkScene

Doug ColletteBy DOUG COLLETTE
Peter Case: On The Way Downtown: Recorded Live On FolkScene

Peter Case’s On the Way Downtownreminds how prolific the once and future frontman of the Plimsouls has been during the course of his solo

On the Way Downtown to Show Business,

Baby

Peter Case and Tom Heyman, are both musicians and singer-songwriters who’ve been writing and playing music for decades, who happen to coincidentally currently reside in San Francisco. Both make music that is aware of tradition and musical history, and both have been through the ringer of the music business and keep on doing it anyway. Peter Case’s new album On The Way

    CUT THROAT ANGELS  We crossed over into Mexico at Tijuana, in the afternoon a day or so later. I don’t know what we thought we were doing in the meantime. None of it made much sense. I’d met Shawn on the Santa Barbara boardwalk. She was about my age, a nice hippie girl, pretty, and very friendly. We met by arrangement later that night, down on the beach again, and after some talk, flirtation, and fooling around, Eric drove us to a nearby park, gave me a blanket, dropped

FRIJOLES TEQUIlA AMOR”   We came down out of the mountains a few hours later, hit the road from Mexicali, and turned right, heading south. We didn’t see any other southbound travelers yet, just the occasional pickup trucks loaded with produce or equipment heading the other way. We were hot and delirious with thirst. There was nothing in sight, no store, no stations, no restaurants, or even homes along this stretch. Only more rocks, sand, mountains, and road. The sun was riding way down in the sky now, shadows were long, but

When I was a kid John Lennon was one of my biggest heros. At 16 years old I read the Rolling Stone interview, and JL said something like ‘I’m the kind of person, when I have a hero, if I find out they wear green socks, I’ll run out and buy green socks’  and  I immediately started to wear green socks myself. Wore ’em for years. I know that’s fucked up. He did a photo spread in Look Magazine, with Yoko, it must have been around the time of  the making of

THE WATER YOU DRINK We headed up into the Sierra De Juarez mountains, on this little one lane road about an hour after we woke up. It was mid-day, and the temperature was up over 100 degrees, I’m guessing, maybe way over. The sun was closer than I’d ever seen it, and we couldn’t escape the burn. Through hills of scorched brown dirt, and dead blonde grass, on this tiny jagged line of a road, Eric pushed the Corolla through the turns, taking the bumps full on, driving as fast and as

CUT THROAT ANGELS  We crossed over into Mexico at Tijuana, in the afternoon a day or so later. I don’t know what we thought we were doing in the meantime. None of it made much sense. I’d met Shawn on the Santa Barbara boardwalk. She was about my age, a nice hippie girl, pretty, and very friendly. We met by arrangement later that night, down on the beach again, and after some talk, flirtation, and fooling around, Eric drove us to a nearby park, gave me a blanket, dropped us off, and