1) puppy
in my arms a warm & quivering vibration of life and heat & emotions—the smell of dust & fields in summertime—a scent of shampoo—the soft funny rising of the ears at sounds wiggling & waggling & settling into my fold—her eyes are bright & glittering—innocent in their return—the tail a pointed snaky thing—a flag on a stick—black paws—soft & shiny—leathern—and pure white pointed teeth—sharp— a slight little gnawing & your hand is drawing back in a hurry the crunching teeth on a wooden toy—she leaps up & kisses me on the mouth—wetness all over—& pfui—I don’t want her germs in my mouth—but it’s ok & her wet nose against my dry skin—it’s cool—she’s down & running circles until I’m dizzy—spinning & dodging through our feet—barking a high pitched yip & a yowl like talking—I feel calm & happy holding her our love begins to kindle.
2)) friend
teenage wino
with a gentle side
a quiet voice
beautiful eyes
a bottle of boone’s farm
he never gave in
went around barefoot
later in life a gourmet cook
made soup for my mom
& left it on the doorstep
& rang the bell & split
he loved elderly people
he bought a sailboat
took to Lake Erie
in all kinds of weather
he hired on boats as a chef
down in the caribbean
he was writing a book
that no one would ever read
it was a long story
with a troubled end
a gentle soul
that played hard with itself
rolled his own
from a Bugler can
dropped out of school
a week before graduation
hitch-hiked to Provincetown
I think to see a girl
fathered three kids
wasn’t scared a’ no one
authority defied
thing about Jon is
there’s no one to blame
‘cause if everything was different
it would still be the same
3) piano lessons
she was gentle
treated people with respect
her piano roared symphonic
she stood up straight
thought before she spoke
but she got in trouble
someone else’s heavy hands
he blacked her eyes
lied to her parents
& she covered it up
in the summertime
a scholarship to music school
promised her freedom
but he tracked her down
she laughed out loud
her parents—cushions & dust
& books on art
such high hopes
but he reeled her in
she got more serious—
& very quiet
some say she even got mean
but I don’t believe it
no one came to her rescue
it was a bad situation
& none of her fault
she taught me to play
Johann Sebastian Bach
through the wintertime
she’d played with the orchestra
at Marlboro
had a way of holding her hands
I loved her but I was
just a little too young.
4) keeping the roads open
silver semis glide on asphalt ropes which dangle over bottomless drops—this is known as a highway—boxes upended with air holes shake in the wind braced for kicks—known as community—climbing the ropes in a wind tunnel—known as driving without sleep—putting insects into the popcorn—also known as Top Forty—elbowed by the Rio Grande familiar sensations—the bottom falls out a wet sack—trusting a politician—the big hands on the two the little hands in yr pocket—that’s entertainment—snubbed at the ball that’s amore—grappling with forbidden tongues—picking up the mail—tendons sore from construction—age—the heat’s on—the deck sways—the typhoon roars—elementary my dear penguin.
5) Folsom St. Nerves —’70’s
a beat up building on Folsom Street
cars rush by late for the freeway
late for the bridge
trash in the street cracks in the window
& every player in the band
lives on a separate floor
aligned by the window well
A bass amp on the floor
pressed into service as a coffee table
linoleum asbestos & an old junk tv
tuned to the all night movies (movies ’til dawn)
a beat up record player & speakers
& my kitty cats torment the puppy
(who howls when they slap him
with their claws out stretched)
someone upstairs is yelling again fighting again
round & round shouts down the well
I had an onion Paul had a spud
& we fried ‘em up in oil
with catsup borrowed from Clown Alley
San Francisco—the ’70’s—a city of outlaws
the West—drifters & outsiders
rents are cheap & we’re passing the days
in a basement
hours of rehearsal while
the clock tower on a downtown bank
ticking the hours by ten or sixteen
nothing in the fridge nothing in the cupboard
no books on the shelf
no money but time
dreaming up songs that somehow limp back
we laugh together it works sometimes
working hard for hours but it’s a lonely group
something out of nothing that’s how to write songs
it’s always amazing when something happens
& I hear them laughing.
6) jail•••
when the door clanks shut that’s jail—in the dark body boiling heart beating fast—trapped in anxiety—the bench is a bed there’s no one through the bars—nowhere to go—waiting is all—the concrete—hard & cold—the door is solid wood with a little window that slides back to reveal eyes the sink & toilet unused five feet to pace in the vibrating memory of all who’ve stood here in guilt and fear—my frail flesh contained by steel—anger directed by dead eyes—my voice surprises me & no one hears it—I’m a mystery to myself—and there’s no one else in sight—listening waiting & reading the nothing scratched on the wall—talk outside approaching steps echo in the hall key in the back with a hollow ring.
7)
My friend she always dressed in rock & roll clothes
that's jeans & heels & jerseys
hair in a perm & black eyes too
couldn’t handle her booze
knees out of the jeans
knew a lot of records
met the sensational Alex Harvey
turned me on to Gram Parsons
also Garland Jeffries
we walked together endlessly
up & down the strip
all the way to Highland
from the Whisky A Go Go
saw the first Wall of Voodoo gig
with fifteen other people
smashing dishes in the kitchen
threw every thing I owned
out the window
she was twenty one or two
worked at a real estate office
the year prop 13 passed
read cosmo
& other pretty girl magazines
we had a fold down bed
that came out of the wall
a dingy apartment on Franklin Place
she was a smart kid who drank too much
somehow I phased her out behind a crush
left her alone at home while I wandered
she was working hard
my band was taking off
I’m not sure what the problem was
but it must’ve been me
8)) part II
she kicked the window out in the car
borrowed from my lawyer
a wild look in her eye
angry & unstoppable
she’d laugh her mouth a lipstick O
would talk about her daddy & cry
he was not well with heart disease
& tortured by her mom
I only remember us making making love
a couple of times but
there must’ve been hundreds
the drink—the time so long ago
once she laughed
& walked on my records in her high heels drunk
she smoked but I can barely remember
I got jealous when I’d hear certain stories
but she understood rock & roll
I spent my time reading a book about Buddy Holly
playing guitar on the couch or in the kitchen
writing songs & taping them while she toiled
the pizza place a slice & a bar
on the stool by the front door
anecdotes return but not flow
unless it’s the walking
walking & walking in Hollywood
miles up to the clubs
the Whisky the Roxy—& back later
always on the outside maybe one foot in
eating at Love’s—and drinking margueritas
at Love’s or El Coyote
& Saturday mornings
drunk at the Champagne Brunch by A&M
all you can drink!
9)
& she wore perfume not sure what
maybe Chanel but I don’t know
she had a nice body & a pretty face
guess I did too
we were both just kids
listening to Elvis Costello when the record came out
Talking Heads & Ramones
she loved Eddie Cochran & Elvis too
can’t remember cooking tho’ it must’ve been
skirts & blouses & panty hose
worn to work she took a bus
all the way to Sherman Oaks
I ran into her after Lennon was killed
no I’m mixing my years
it was later than that
she lived on the hill downtown
that Fante wrote of
did she take me home or did I meet her there?
up in her room it was in half light
I don’t remember how I got there or when I left
I just remember the feeling of blue remorse
shame at going back to the one I’d left
and the great comfort just being together
we were in bad shape alcohol & drugs
I ran away after getting my kicks
and I remembered why I’d stayed.
10) cart—rapid hands—under fluorescents—there’s a pen in her pocket and a pad in the apron pouch—the plates are covered in sticky syrup—remnants of yellow egg yokes—the glasses were well mouthed but she moves forward bending over the row cleared area with a wet rag—she’s only five-two so has to reach—stretching out to the corner to map with both hands—her eyes are brighter—her step is more wiry—her laugh is a wheeze she smokes outside in back on her break & talks with the dish-washers.
Priest has a dry look—he’s greying—the lines in his face are deep he listens & waits.
11) what I didn’t know
where the roads through town wound up
how far away you could get in just a little time
people would smile but not mean what they say
others would frown but not let you down
the power of even the smallest creature in the world
I didn’t know why I should go to school
or why it was time to go home
who shot the Kennedys and Martin Luther King
what they were doing upstairs
made a lot of noise but the sounds were strange
I didn’t know I’d remember you for the rest of my life
I didn’t know I’d regret the way I didn’t step up or out
I was a coward then I didn’t want to be alone
they’d say once a coward always a coward
but I don’t believe it
I never really got back then that we all grow old & die
or how fast the stream of time rolls by
I thought I could handle the juice
but it would manhandle me
I didn’t know how much I’d struggle
to carry that old guitar
those days we’d traipse across the city long
with a guitar stretching my arm
12) more things I didn’t know
what the people upstairs were up to
with that crazy electric sound
that the old people hadn’t always been old
that the big war was fought just a few short years before
why he wanted me to move in at the house
we’d stop talking & run
didn’t know the world could feel this dangerous
that he’d be shouting at the end of his speech
how little I’d remember of the things that meant so much
how much I could love a dog
the city I knew vanished when I went down South
a lot of these times would become stories
and the stories became cliches
I didn’t know they’d have to operate
didn’t know I’d be this tired
didn’t know the trends I thought were bad
would rise up & take control
I didn’t know I’d need to know your birthday
didn’t know I’d be so blue
didn’t know relief was just a prayer away
I could ask at any time for relief
I could start my day again
didn’t know to start this one right
didn’t know I’d need gratitude.
13) I didn’t know who was coming down the street
or listening from the back of the room
or that day we said goodbye on Broadway
was the last time that we’d ever meet
didn’t know I’d be wondering about you
didn’t think I could know what to do
life is lived in the moments
lines are collected on scraps
friends are all friends forever
there are places you can’t find on maps
there are secrets that won’t be
I didn’t know I’d have enough money
to survive even tho’ I went broke
I couldn’t see how my mother & father
could have acted that way & not choked
the ones that we paid scant attention
are the ones who would bring the house down
I didn’t know I coulda taken it easy
& let the whole world come my way
I was confused & deceived in my thinking
somehow I gave all my power away
14) people in the neighborhood
old Mr. Bonnett had TB & a limp
he was very thin & quiet I think a stroke
on the other side of the little wire fence
in his baggy pants & green work shirt
he’d smile at me& try to say “hi”
but the words didn’t come out well
old Mrs. Valentine was a friend to me as a child
I’d go knock on her door for a visit
she gave me candy and always spoke so kind
lived alone in that house
Mr Valentine had gone
she was the first person I knew that died
I can’t see her face now it’s too long ago
I was a tiny little character its so far back
but when she passed away I cried
Howard Moore & his brother Lee
Lee was a bookie & Howard a drunk
beer & peanuts. the nuts he’d offer to me
from a little orange bowl as he watched
the horse race on tv
we kids’d knock on his door & wait ’til he came
sometimes a very long time
sometimes he’d have us in
or he’d shoo us away
with “I hear your mother calling”
“I don’t hear her , Howard”
“She’s calling—she just called again”
Fred Bonnett had a funny old car
from a foreign country& it never ran
the grass grew up around
by the white ramshackle garage.
15) waitress clearing a table—a party of six & the remaining dishes are a scattered jumble of wreckage & crumbs & empty glasses cups & plates—she eyes the mess with no expression but bright eyes beneath a white food service cap she’s wearing a white blouse & skirt, panty hose & flat pumps—a hair net over grey—fingernails long enough to pry fruit from a rind—as she works stacking she watches the door—quick calm glance at the register line—she’s chewing gum I see—little motions like the way rock singers do—was she at woodstock? She moves the dishes onto the...
1) puppy
in my arms a warm & quivering vibration of life and heat & emotions—the smell of dust & fields in summertime—a scent of shampoo—the soft funny rising of the ears at sounds wiggling & waggling & settling into my fold—her eyes are bright & glittering—innocent in their return—the tail a pointed snaky thing—a flag on a stick—black paws—soft & shiny—leathern—and pure white pointed teeth—sharp— a slight little gnawing & your hand is drawing back in a hurry the crunching teeth on a wooden toy—she leaps up & kisses me on the mouth—wetness all over—& pfui—I don’t want her germs in my mouth—but it’s ok & her wet nose against my dry skin—it’s cool—she’s down & running circles until I’m dizzy—spinning & dodging through our feet—barking a high pitched yip & a yowl like talking—I feel calm & happy holding her our love begins to kindle.
2)) Jon
teenage wino
with a gentle side
a quiet voice
beautiful eyes
a bottle of boone’s farm
he never gave in
went around barefoot
later in life a gourmet cook
made soup for my mom
& left it on the doorstep
& rang the bell & split
he loved elderly people
he bought a sailboat
took to Lake Erie
in all kinds of weather
he hired on boats as a chef
down in the caribbean
he was writing a book
that no one would ever read
it was a long story
with a troubled end
a gentle soul
that played hard with itself
rolled his own
from a Bugler can
dropped out of school
a week before graduation
hitch-hiked to Provincetown
I think to see a girl
fathered three kids
wasn’t scared a’ no one
authority defied
thing about Jon is
there’s no one to blame
‘cause if everything was different
it would still be the same.
3) piano lessons
she was gentle
treated people with respect
her piano roared symphonic
she stood up straight
thought before she spoke
but she got in trouble
someone else’s heavy hands
he blacked her eyes
lied to her parents
& she covered it up
in the summertime
a scholarship to music school
promised her freedom
but he tracked her down
she laughed out loud
her parents—cushions & dust
& books on art
such high hopes
but he reeled her in
she got more serious—
& very quiet
some say she even got mean
but I don’t believe it
no one came to her rescue
it was bad situation
& none of her fault
she taught me to play
Johann Sebastian Bach
through the wintertime
she’d played with the orchestra
at Tanglewood
had a way of holding her hands
I loved her but I was
just a little too young.
4) keeping the roads open
silver semis glide on asphalt ropes which dangle over bottomless drops—this is known as a highway—boxes upended with air holes shake in the wind braced for kicks—known as community—climbing the ropes in a wind tunnel—known as driving without sleep—putting insects into the popcorn—also known as Top Forty—elbowed by the Rio Grande familiar sensations—the bottom falls out a wet sack—trusting a politician—the big hands on the two the little hands in yr pocket—that’s entertainment—snubbed at the ball that’s amore—grappling with forbidden tongues—picking up the mail—tendons sore from construction—age—the heat’s on—the deck sways—the typhoon roars—elementary my dear penguin.
5) Folsom St. Nerves —’70’s
a beat up building on Folsom Street
cars rush by late for the freeway
late for the bridge
trash in the street cracks in the window
& every player in the band
lives on a separate floor
aligned by the window well
A bass amp on the floor
pressed into service as a coffee table
linoleum asbestos & an old junk tv
tuned to the all night movies (movies ’til dawn)
a beat up record player & speakers
& my kitty cats torment the puppy
(who howls when they slap him
with their claws out stretched)
& Jack & Connie are yelling again fighting again
round & round shouts down the well
I had an onion Paul had a spud
& we fried ‘em up in oil
with catsup borrowed from Clown Alley
San Francisco—the ’70’s—a city of outlaws
the West—drifters & outsiders
rents are cheap & we’re passing the days
in a basement
hours of rehearsal while
the clock tower on a downtown bank
ticking the hours by ten or sixteen
nothing in the fridge nothing in the cupboard
no books on the shelf
no money but time
dreaming up songs that somehow limp back
we laugh together it works sometimes
working hard for hours but it’s a lonely group
something out of nothing that’s how to write songs
it’s always amazing when something happens
& I hear them laughing.
6) jail•••
when the door clanks shut that’s jail—in the dark body boiling heart beating fast—trapped in anxiety—the bench is a bed there’s no one through the bars—nowhere to go—waiting is all—the concrete—hard & cold—the door is solid wood with a little window that slides back to reveal eyes the sink & toilet unused five feet to pace in the vibrating memory of all who’ve stood here in guilt and fear—my frail flesh contained by steel—anger directed by dead eyes—my voice surprises me & no one hears it—I’m a mystery to myself—and there’s no one else in sight—listening waiting & reading the nothing scratched on the wall—talk outside approaching steps echo in the hall key in the back with a hollow ring.
7)
My friend she always dressed in rock & roll clothes
that's jeans & heels & jerseys
hair in a perm & black eyes too
couldn’t handle her booze
knees out of the jeans
knew a lot of records
met the sensational Alex Harvey
turned me on to Gram Parsons
also Garland Jeffries
we walked together endlessly
up & down the strip
all the way to Highland
from the Whisky A Go Go
saw the first Wall of Voodoo gig
with fifteen other people
smashing dishes in the kitchen
threw every thing I owned
out the window
she was twenty one or two
worked at a real estate office
the year prop 13 passed
read cosmo
& other pretty girl magazines
we had a fold down bed
that came out of the wall
a dingy apartment of Franklin Place
she was a smart kid who drank too much
somehow I phased her out behind a crush
left her alone at home while I wandered
she was working hard
my band was taking off
I’m not sure what the problem was
but it must’ve been me
8)) part II
she kicked the window out in the car
borrowed from my lawyer
a wild look in her eye
angry & unstoppable
she’s laugh her mouth a lipstick O
would talk about her daddy & cry
he was not well with heart disease
& tortured by her mom
I only remember us making making love
a couple of times but
there must’ve been hundreds
the drink—the time so long ago
once she laughed
& walked on my records in her high heels drunk
she smoked but I can barley remember
I got jealous when I’d hear certain stories
but she understood rock & roll
I spent my time reading a book about Buddy Holly
playing guitar on the couch or in the kitchen
writing songs & taping them while she toiled
the pizza place a slice & a bar
on the stool by the front door
anecdotes return but not flow
unless it’s the walking
walking & walking in Hollywood
miles up to the clubs
the Whisky the Roxy—& back later
always on the outside maybe one foot in
eating at Love’s—and drinking margueritas
at Love’s or El Coyote
& Saturday mornings
drunk at the Champagne Brunch by A&M
all you can drink!
9)
& she wore perfume not sure what
maybe Chanel but I don’t know
she had a nice body & a pretty face
we were both just kids
listening to Elvis Costello when the record came out
Talking Heads & Ramones
she loved Eddie Cochran & Elvis too
can’t remember cooking tho’ it must’ve been
skirts & blouses & panty hose
worn to work she took a bus
all the way to Sherman Oaks
I ran into her after Lennon was killed
no I’m mixing my years
it was later than that
she lived on the hill downtown
that Fante wrote of
did she take me home or did I meet her there?
up in her room it was in half light
I don’t remember how I got there or when I left
I just remember the feeling of blue remorse
shame at going back to the one I’d left
and the great comfort of our bodies together
we were in bad shape alcohol & drugs
I ran away after getting my kicks
and I remembered why I’d stayed.
10) cart—rapid hands—under fluorescents—there’s a pen in her pocket and a pad in the apron pouch—the plates ere covered in sticky syrup—remnants of yellow egg yokes—the glasses were well mouthed but she moves forward bending over the row cleared area with a wet rag—she’s only five-two so has to reach—stretching out to the corner to map with both hands—her eyes are brighter—her step is more wiry—her laugh is a wheeze she smokes outside in back on her break & talks with the dish-washers.
Priest has a dry look—he’s greying—the lines in his face are deep he listens & waits.
11) what I didn’t know
where the roads through town wound up
how far away you could get in just a little time
people would smile but not mean what they say
others would frown but not let you down
the power of even the smallest creature in the world
I didn’t know why I should go to school
or why it was time to go home
who shot the Kennedys and Martin Luther King
what they were doing upstairs
made a lot of noise but the sounds were strange
I didn’t know I’d remember you for the rest of my life
I didn’t know I’d regret the way I didn’t step up or out
I was a coward then I didn’t want to be alone
they’d say once a coward always a coward
I never really got back then that we all grow old & die
or how fast the stream of time rolls by
I thought I could handle the juice
but it would manhandle me
I didn’t know how much I’d struggle
to carry that old guitar
those days we’d traipse across the city long
with a guitar stretching my arm
12) more things I didn’t know
what the people upstairs were up to
with that crazy electric sound
that the old people hadn’t always been old
that the big war was fought just a few short years before
why he wanted me to move in at the house
we’d stop talking & run
didn’t know the world could feel this dangerous
that he’d be shouting at the end of his speech
how little I’d remember of the things that meant so much
how much I could love a dog
the city I knew vanished when I went down South
a lot of these times would become stories
and the stories became cliches
I didn’t know they’d have to operate
didn’t know I’d be this tired
didn’t know the trends I though were bad
would rise up & take control
I didn’t know I’d need to know your birthday
didn’t know I’d be so blue
didn’t know relief was just a prayer away
I could ask at any time for relief
I could start my day again
didn’t know to start this one right
didn’t know I’d need gratitude.
13) I didn’t know who was coming down the street
or listening from the back of the room
or that day we said goodbye on Broadway
was the last time that we’d ever meet
didn’t know I’d be wondering about you
didn’t think I could know what to do
life is lived in the moments
lines are collected on scraps
friends are all friends forever
there are places you can’t find on maps
there are secrets that won’t be
I didn’t know I’d have enough money
to survive even tho’ I went broke
I couldn’t see how my mother & father
could have acted that way & not choked
the ones that we paid scant attention
are the ones who would bring the house down
I didn’t know I coulda taken it easy
& let the whole world come my way
I was confused & deceived in my thinking
somehow I gave all my power away
14) people in the neighborhood
old Mr. Bonnett had TB & a limp
he was very thin & quiet I think a stroke
on the other side of the little wire fence
in his baggy pants & green work shirt
he’d smile at me& try to say “hi”
but the words didn’t come out well
old Mrs. Valentine was a friend to me as a child
I’d go knock on her door for a visit
she gave me candy and always spoke so kind
lived alone in that house
Mr Valentine had gone
she was the first person I knew that died
I can’t see her face now it’s too long ago
I was a tiny little character its so far back
but when she passed away I cried
Howard Moore & his brother Lee
Lee was a bookie & Howard a drunk
beer & peanuts. the nuts he’d offer to me
from a little orange bowl as he watched
the horse race on tv
we kids’d knock on his door & wait ’til he came
sometimes a very long time
sometimes he’d have us in
or he’d shoo us away
with “I hear your mother calling”
“I don’t hear her , Howard”
“She’s calling—she just called again”
Fred Bonnett had a funny old car
from a foreign country& it never ran
the grass grew up around
by the white ramshackle garage.
15) waitress clearing a table—a party of six & the remaining dishes are a scattered jumble of wreckage & crumbs & empty glasses cups & plates—she eyes the mess with no expression but bright eyes beneath a white food service cap she’s wearing a white blouse & skirt, pang hose & flat pumps—a hair net over grey—fingernails long enough to pry fruit from a rind—as she works stacking she watches the door—quick calm glance at the register line—she’s chewing gum I see—little motions like the way rock singers do—was she at woodstock? She moves the dishes onto the...
Reviews and comments on Doctor Moan
“One of the great US songwriters…11 new originals…several of them are among his best…Case knows that his songs don’t need perfume and a clean suit.” – MOJO
“…It is a powerful set that finds his skills as a songwriter and his strength as a singer undiminished…Doctor Moan finds Peter Case in outstanding mature form…A grade”
— THE VINYL DISTRICT
“Doctor Moan is filled with personal reflections on a long, storied career, but it’s never maudlin or dispirited. In fact, Case’s varied musical palette commands the listener to lean in close to view musical dioramas of scenes gone by, from the barroom blues of “Ancient Sunrise” to the Memphis appeal of “The Flying Crow.” Even the lovely two-minute “4D,” Case’s first recorded instrumental, lends further emotion and shadow to a three-dimensional listen.” — NO DEPRESSION
“Case has had a long and varied solo career attacking blues, folk and rock with equal gusto…he returns with a welcome album of original material. He forsakes the guitar for the majority of affairs, preferring to drive tracks like Girl In Love With A Shadow, Eyes Of Love and Brand New Book Of Rules with his relaxed, bluesy piano playing. Effortlessly engrossing.” – SCOTTISH DAILY EXPRESS
“His new blues-tinged release features his distinctive singing, with its quality of emotional authenticity and his little-known piano playing (only one song centers on guitar, his primary instrument)… the resulting tuneful songs tell of his instinct for conjuring poetic lyrics about idyllic escapes from conformity, romantic longing or reshaped memories.” – DOWNBEAT
“Case is a master storyteller as he mightily spins tales of desperation…and nostalgia…in colorful and vivid detail. He also blows a mean harmonica!” – MUSIC CONNECTION
“For all intents and purposes, Case is reinventing his artistic identity with this LP… By the time Peter Case concludes the roughly forty-five minutes or so that is Doctor Moan, he has fully reconfigured a new persona for himself in line with the album’s title. In doing so with the same keen intelligence by which he wrought 1989’s The Man with the Blue Post-Modern Fragmented Neo-Traditionalist Guitar, he also impresses with the depth of soulful vulnerability that permeates these recordings.” — GLIDE MAGAZINE
“Peter Case has a storied career, from punk to acoustic rock and all points in-between. Today’s song has a rollicking piano accompaniment (Downtown Nowhere’s Blues)…” — AMERICANA UK
“His diverse tastes have made for an equally diverse body of work and his latest album, Doctor Moan, is no exception.” — THE HUSTLE PODCAST
“The cinematic and evocative single and album opener, “Have You Ever Been in Trouble” sets the tone for Peter Case’s Doctor Moan album.” – THE BIG TAKEOVER
“…an American treasure, a real-life troubadour who travels all sorts of roads without ever getting lost..This is modern music at its most passionate.” – BENTLEY’S BANDSTAND
”His new album Doctor Moan is a stirring song cycle that’s powered by Case behind the keys of an acoustic piano. And it’s riveting work–The songs are heartfelt, arresting and filled with raw finesse that makes every moment immediate and engaging.”
– STEREO EMBERS PODCAST
“Case opens with a whisper, building to a more emphatic interrogation with “Have You Ever Been In Trouble”… a theatrical kind of presentation that sets the tone for the album…the deliciously drawn out and intimate “Eyes of Love” is pure gospel…“Wandering Days” is Case at his storytelling best…It’s always refreshing to see an experienced artist change course. Case digs into these songs and sings with the kind of conviction you can count on.”
— MAKING A SCENE
“Typically, Peter’s output has been guitar-driven, going back to his earliest Nerves and Plimsouls days, as well as his solo career. But here, he’s flipped the script, and these songs rely heavily on piano, as guitar takes a backseat. But this isn’t your granny’s piano music… He has been making brilliant music for nearly half a century. So, it’s no surprise that Doctor Moan has the right prescription for these complicated days.” – COACHELLA VALLEY WEEKLY
“Doctor Moan is Case in his element as the master songwriting troubadour he is on what is a most enjoyable change of pace.” – NARRAGANSETT TIMES
“Doctor Moan is a reflective album…a thinking man’s set of mature material done up with blues, folk, a tinge of gospel and most importantly, an open musical heart to just let his emotions out for anyone’s empathy and feelings.” — RAGE MONTHLY MAGAZINE
“One of the most well-respected singer/songwriters of his generation, founder of legendary power-pop band, The Plimsouls, three-time Grammy nominee, Peter Case, is my guest for episode 1256! His latest album, the piano based, Doctor Moan drops on March 31st and he’ll be heading out on tour in April…We have an amazing conversation about his journey in music from street musician to legendary punk-pop band, The Nerves the The Plimsouls and “Valley Girl” to the incredible solo artist he is today.”
– HOW DID I GET HERE PODCAST
“Throughout his five-decade career, Case’s music has explored a wide range of genres, including exuberant jangly rock, traditional blues, punk and introspective Americana – but Doctor Moan is his first piano-driven album…The intimate, wistful songs he wrote then can now gain a much wider audience because Case is releasing them on his latest solo album, Doctor Moan (out on March 31 via Sunset Blvd. Records).”
– ROCK AND ROLL GLOBE
“His vocals are exceptional, as always…Wandering Days, one of the few guitar-focused songs on the record, is easily one of his best songs in years, as it reminisces about teenage discovery with his flinty vocals.” – AMERICANA HIGHWAYS
“…Doctor Moan is a change-up album of sorts as the songs are a collection piano-based compositions” – UP CLOSE AND ACOUSTIC
“Peter Case is a singer-songwriter who has covered a tremendous amount of ground, both physically and stylistically, over a long, impressive career…including the pounding piano blues of his upcoming Doctor Moan…This is a great conversation for songwriters and music fans alike.” – CARO POP
“To be sure the 11-track Doctor Moan is a rich tapestry that serves the New York native’s literate and compelling songcraft fully at every turn.” – ROCK N ROLL TRUTH
“…This percussive incarnation finds Peter Case demonstrating his knack for economy of motion, humility and hubris as a dedicated servant of song and crafty wordsmith…From start to finish you feel the artist’s profound respect for storytelling and imagery as well as melodic reverence to render the listener unencumbered, and able to able to receive the messages of the songs.” – THE ROCKING MAGPIE
Tales of Three Favorite Tracks: Dangerous Book by the Plimsouls, Many Roads to Follow by the Nerves, Small Town Spree by PC
The Plimsouls, Dangerous Book, 1995
(This was my first post for a while. Like all of us, I’d been laying very low. I’m reprising it now as we move forward into the next act. At the time I was discovering the songs for Dr Moan.)
We’ve been quarantined for four months now. The country’s going through paroxysms. I’ve been trying to stay in touch with people. But in here it’s like living on a submarine during a transglobal cruise. What have you been doing? I’ve been playing the piano like crazy. Started playing guitar again last week, though I never really lost my calluses. I’m coughing all the time, which is worrying these days, but the doc says it’s allergies. Writing songs is a kick, and hopefully I’m going in to record another album in a few months. There’s one album, The Midnight Broadcast, already in the can, and it’s going to mastering, hopefully to be released by September, on a new label called Bandaloop Music. The timing of it all has been thrown off by circumstances, but we’ll see. I’ve been reading whatever’s around. That includes a couple of novels by Charles Portis, and some poetry by street poet visionary Ariana Reines, including her latest, A Sand Book. After Dylan dropped Murder Most Foul, I was turned onto a novel by the late David Bowman, called The Big Bang. I’ve been listening to the new Dylan album, which led me back, for some reason to John Trudell’s Blue Indians album, which still really moves me. And this summer, I’ve been digging KPOO radio, especially the Tuesday afternoon “Uplift Broadcast” (John Coltrane related music) and the Wednesday afternoon Reggae program “Wake This Town.” They’re both online, both come on at 2 pm on their respective days, and you can hear a ton of great music, for free and for fun, as they say.
I re-read Roberto Belano’s Savage Detectives, sort of studying it in slow motion. It might qualify as a “dangerous book.”
In 1985 I was down in Fort Worth, Texas, sharing a two bedroom flat with T-Bone Burnett at the Taj Mahal Apartments, near the Oak Cliff section of town. I’d get up every morning and work on songs, while T would get up and leave, going out on the town doing business I knew nothing about. I wrote Ice Water, Small Town Spree, Horse and Crow, and a number of other songs, there, in that living room, sitting on the couch with my guitar and notebook. In the morning I’d make a pot of coffee, and after that was gone I’d drink Budweiser the rest of the day. T-Bone would come back at night and I’d play him what I was working on, and we’d talk about it, then he’d show me things about songwriting that he’d learned from Bob Dylan, and others, and tell stories. I’d tell some too. Somedays I’d go out at noon, for long walks down the main drag, braced against the cold winter air, ruminating about my songs,and my hopes and fears. I really felt like a “fish out of water” in that neighborhood, and never really knew where I was going, never talked to anyone, never really found a place to hang out. But I was getting some writing done.
I was reading Chaucer at the time, in Old English. I’d heard that it would be good for my songwriting, and maybe it was.
And frankly, I was on an emotional edge, so every night, and sometimes during the day, I’d get down on my knees by my bed, and pray, even though I wasn’t sure what I was praying to. I felt like I was falling apart.
Small Town Spree, (with Van Dyke Parks’ string quartet)
Live in Paris, 1990
Holy Ghost
The heat was on in the auditorium when the pastor called to “lock the doors!”—the Holy Ghost was on the move like flame in tinder—the women in the pew behind were laying hands on me—but it was that time in Texas when I was desperate and prayed with my friend and the Holy Ghost floated down from above through the roof and ceiling—dropping down on me—a ball of blue and white holy fire—I felt loved—and that Holy Ghost followed me——it’s been years now since that troubled day—when I got down on my knees—“How do I know God is real?”—“because he’s out to get me”— later my life turned a corner and in a terrible way I was on my own—the Ghost is a ghost—A spirit—of flames?—not exactly—of an emotional and spiritual power and force on the essence of my being—unpredictable but very powerful—frightening?—awe inspiring—And when the Holy Ghost tells you to do—always something good—you better do it!—you can’t elude it without losing the precious connection—O Baby you don’t have to go—I feel it again—I’m so much older now but it doesn’t really matter—except to make life and time more precious and the Holy Ghost.
(A few negatives. Don’t mistake what I’m saying here for what’s known today as “evangelism.” I don’t believe in “spiritual materialism” as practiced by many of the political right wing in the States. And it’s not about judging anyone. That’s not it AT ALL.)
Take 2
They said there was no such thing, no window that the light poured through on a rainy day, or a black midnight—we figured we were fooling ourselves—about synchronicity—astral communication—levitation and telepathy—hell, even aromatherapy—the location of wonder begged the question, it wasn’t walking through walls tho’ the grandparents claimed to have seen the ghosts do just that—it was the magic of anima—the beloved transformed—the beauty—over a table in the colors of love—“the way she accents the color of her hair” magic, breathtaking, the music that got us up and out riding its charge—the lone guitar player who stopped time—then it happened—arrival—an answer to prayer–how could I ever forget that? the magic worked in my life—over YEARS–I quit doing the things that were killing me—began to get over my self a little—and the songs came on dreams or in moments of openness–anticipation–desire–hope? And the power of ask and ye shall receive—but don’t confuse the priests for prophets.
Take 3
Dangerous Books. Let’s see, there’s Kerouac’s On The Road. I was never the same after I read that at 14. Lennon Remembers was pretty influential, the part about his teenage years. I read it when I was 17 or so. I didn’t give a fuck about anything, and that story seconded the emotion. Poetry? Ginsberg’s Howl, Kaddish, and Planet Waves. Ferlinghetti’s Coney Island Of The Mind was a biggie, maybe the first one that hit me, when I was 12 or 13. Cannery Row and Tortilla Flats. Lord Jim. 0rwell’s 1984. Songs of Innocence and Experience. Catch 22, I’ll never forget that.
Later, in 1984, the old and new testaments of the Bible. I used to read it when I was drunk.It was a calming and pure door to another, that is, ancient world that is actually chaotic, terrible and fraught with violence, just like today’s— an allegory huge and filled with mystery—parables, histories and tales—visions of angels climbing up and down on a ladder to the stars, Cain slew his brother Abel, there’s a serpent in the edenic grass, Ham’s nakedness in a tent, always a million reasons to stop reading, but once you’re in you’re drawn on. I like the parts about the Holy Ghost—Exodus and travails upon the desert escaping from babylonic captivity in Egypt—the tower of Babel. A symbol for our time when no two can speak and agree. Wisdom, Ecclesiastes, a book painfully, obviously true, the vanity of human wishes, the Book of Job, God and the Accuser playing games—I could never really penetrate the laws and kings—loved the Sermon on the Mount, in Matthew, the Book of Revelations and Prophet Ezekiel—horrendous monsters of vision with four faces & wheels within wheels and wings that sound like thunder—the indictment of the world, and— Crucifixion, prophecies, diverging versions of events—or Lot and his wife—she turned to salt for looking back. Angels. Justice. So that book took me over a cliff for real too. Good thing.
Take 4
The Nerves, Many Roads To Follow, demo, 1976
And don’t forget John Coltrane!
A Love Supreme, that’s a book, too.
Banging the Piano, part 1
Courage is who you stood up to while your back ached your heart beat your breath galloped your heartbeat doubled—he got next to me and I could see murder in his eyes—he wanted to teach me a lesson—he growled and ordered me to sit down– in a chair he threw into the middle of the room—I knew what his intentions were and I ran—he couldn’t catch me and I hid—soon after that I began to stand up to him— when I stopped running and turned around he wept–the real father and son night—courage is of the heart—it’s not just resistance but resistance for a heart-felt cause—we never discussed the heart—I did a lot of things other people are scared of—did they take courage? I know I’ve shown some—but you have to know your heart to defeat cowardice—you gotta believe—standing up to a beating—I’ve never been good at but I kept my terror in check a couple times—they say what I did took courage—but I don’t know only the individual can know about themselves—Lord Jim—hitch hiking when I was a kid? say what you gotta say—do what you gotta do—fear is always there but “take away my fear and direct my attention towards what you would have me do” let me stand up step forward reach out—”save the boy! save the boy!”
Dr Moan is my new album and will be released March 31 on Sunset Blvd Records.
Jumbo Twelve
Discolored from rain on the tarmac near Detroit—TSA left the snaps half undone—and now it looks bruised—the old jumbo twelve string—called it “the cannon”—it’s loud and deep—feels alive in my hands—a sound I’ve developed to express the american red brick honky tonk beauty I’ve been feeling since 1970 or so—the twelve string is a spiritual instrument—I said it for laughs but it’s got a lot of truth to it—the thinner octave strings suggest a parallel dimension—the realm that follows and corresponds to this one—the plonk and jangle–boom and chime quicksilver brightness—
The deep notes with their higher twins—cut through the air–through depression, despair and boredom—objectivity and abjectivity—the twelve string brings extra arms in the fight for light—harder to bend—but more rewarding—still pliant—people say “oh, it’s samey I wouldn’t want it on every song” and I don’t either but it helps me make the most of a simple phrase—always the ghost—the top-end reminder of the spiritual—twelve gates to the city—my protector—a wall of sound?—blues on the twelve—Hendrix—Leadbelly—Keith Richards—it’s heroic—John Hammond Jr. at McCabe’s that night on a guitar just like this one—maple—blonde—tuned way down to C—to see—needs to be treated with blessings, gratitude and 
respect.
A Fistful of Links
The new album, Doctor Moan, is nearly mixed, and will be available as soon as possible. Should have more details in a couple of weeks.
Here’s a link to a full length interview regarding Fred Parne’s Documentary, Peter Case: A Million Miles Away, with The Boston Harold Podcast
The doc should be available for all to view soon…[update: May 30 2023]
Here’s a link to the Spotify Playlist of the new Highway 62 tracks that were recently released in the expanded edition of the album, available on many of the music platforms now. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/56h6IbDqAeMIYBkdu8ur2c
My latest album, from 2021, is available here: The Midnight Broadcast
I discussed my street-singing days in North Beach, Busking with Allen Ginsberg, and other adventures, from the Otis Gibb’s podcast
Just for kicks, here’s a clip from the 80’s, I think it was, of the Plimsouls LIVE. Plimsouls LIVE 1980 something…
I regretted having to cancel the UK tour, but I did it under advisement. I do hope to be able to tour there again with my pal Sid Griffin
Click on the image below to see my latest book, at Amazon.
Thanks everybody, I hope to see you soon!
