Peter Case

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I crowed a temperate break-pest, lent to my own fault & never believed my stones, orbs eyes or slather, but edged reason to silence & spit in the wind of peace Gathered my senses, stretched my extremities, pursued the drip drip drip of hollowed age bent on kindness but over my bent sensate confusion—or lack thereof Calasanctious was the school of Gaynelle’s childhood horror & led to her death—the priest who never slept no doubt is sleeping eternally—as is she by her own hand Particles always another bump down for October ’til the end Time gets out it’s bookends &

[above: Chris and Joey] [earliest version of A Million Miles Away, from 1981 tour]     I ‘d met Joey Alkes and Chris Fradkin at  just the right time, the same week the Plimsouls began playing in the Hollywood clubs. We’d hit it off immediately. I ‘d always wanted to be a Brill Building songwriter,  like Otis Blackwell, Doc Pomus, or Carol King,  who were adept at composing three minute rock ’n roll symphonies on demand.  I felt Joey and Chris were my ticket to that dream, to that

This is the Memphis Minnie blues, from the HWY 62 sessions at Sheldon Gombergs’s Carriage House Studio, in Los Angeles, performed on a guitar Ben Harper had just laid on me, a perfect replica of Lead Belly’s Stella 12-string. Bumble Bee was the first song I played on it. This song is Track 1 on a CD of blues, by Buffalo musicians, released to help homeless veterans in the Western New York area. Here is a link if you’d like to receive a copy, and help out a very good cause:  

  • June 14 
POOR OLD TOM A Tennessee boy joined the US navy In nineteen-fifty he was seventeen A quiet kid who’d never seen the ocean His mama died his first trip at sea He learned to work and he learned to whistle He learned to gamble and he learned to fight He learned to suck a bottle and go out whorin’ Somehow he learned to stagger in at night   Poor old Tom he don’t know Why his teeth’s gotta rattle shiver and shake The night wind’s free to blow wherever it pleases Tom’s free to walk to the cold

Kool Trash (1998)
When I was a kid I read for hours in the local bookstores, working my way through the Hardy Boys detective series, then moving on to Ian Fleming’s secret service novels. I didn’t understand anything about detectives or spies, so it was strictly fill-in-the-blanks, piecing together a picture of the world from bookrack to bookrack, unguided, racing through the set-ups to the death-defying sex scenes. I loved the nearest branch of the public library too, ever since the Friday night when I was six,

Let Us Now Praise Sleepy John (2007)
        Richard was scheduled to come in and record with me the next day at Village Recorders in Los Angeles . In a panic after realizing I had no song ready, I whipped this one up in my kitchen that night. I really had no idea if the tune would work for us or not until Richard heard it in the studio and gave it the thumbs up. We did three versions, which were all very different, so I

The complications in any discussion of The Birth of Tragedy are overwhelming at this point.  I’ve been looking at the companion piece he wrote later, An Attempt At Self- Criticism.  Have you folks seen that? He’s opposed the idea of the Christian with Dionysian. He thinks Christianity is anti-art, anti-life, the desire for a “sabbath of sabbaths.”  I agree that the Christian message has at its root a disgust with the ways of the world. But there’s more to it. It’s also about seeing all with the eyes of love. As usual, what is desirable is not black and white

I’d left the band. I was disorganized in that cottage up there in the canyon, living alone, banging on the piano I’d rented, with records scattered all over the couch and floor, and notebooks too. All I did was write and demo songs. There was never anything in the refrigerator except beer. On the shelf were boxes and boxes of sake. And I powered down coffee like mad when I wasn’t drinking beer or wine, sake or brandy. Not being much of a cook, I took all my meals out, down on Sunset Boulevard usually, at one of