Here’s a Spotify playlist of some of my songs, as I get ready for my new album to be released March 12.

This is a live show from February 2020, a couple weeks before the quarantine. It’s an hour long and features interviews as well as the music.

the priest who never slept was our favorite you could talk to him he was always there alone smoking and writing equations on the board but poor Gaynel took her own life at sixteen and the little longhaired girl with glasses cried for her and got out of that stuck up school I never wanted to go that’s how we met in a suburban development with no trees called Forest Glen not far from the Thruway the priest had theories that’d scare you if you ever thought of ‘em and the little longhaired girl with glasses was very thin and very sad in the spring the snow was filthy still in melting piles shrinking the earth smelled like an open wound wet clay and rotten leaves trees still bare on Pleasant Avenue I smell the raindrops in her hair she’s my best friend and we both wear long coats. debris in the gutter broken plastic toys shreds of colorful garbage in the living room we watched he held a gun to the man’s head and blew his brains out everybody saw and soon a few minutes later the Beatles were somberly singing let it be.

For my old street singing buddy Crazy Horse Danny no reunions on stage for us/ the ‘Frozen Chosen” we never played much on stages anyways/ 1973 usually a streetcorner/ a telephone + a parking meter were all we needed  to put on a show: a couple winos would glare red faced + itchy from the curbstones/ leaning on a letter box while the neon flashed/ + the headlights crashed/ the cop on the sidewalk/ sends for the paddywagon/ so we had to dash/ How is a life like this pieced together? You worked on the black market + fringe/ jobs like guarding the pot fields for the jungle growers in Hawaii/ hustles/ rock +roll cover bands for Honolulu tourists. Our secrets + dreams were looked up + mixed in poverty’s ferocious history/ always one step in back// so if we get weak/ too lonely/or drunk on cheap fireworks. If his eyes are swollen from a brawl on Broadway/ with usurpers who had the nerve to pull a swithchblade/ Danny reached into the the trash bin  + pulled out a weapon: a coke bottle/ one of the ones made of glass/ boink! boink! boink! on the guys head the fight then

                    Who you stood up to while your back ached yr heart beat yr breath galloped yr heartbeat doubled—he got next to me & I could see murder in his eyes—I know he wanted to teach me a lesson—he ordered me to “sit down” in a chair he threw into the middle of the room—he was going to terrorize me & I ran—he couldn’t catch me & I hid—soon after that I began to stand up to him—I stopped running & turned around & he wept—courage is off the heart—its 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 I also suspect my cowardice—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 knows 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

  Tour dates: www.petercase.com/gigs summertime the stillness at the crossroads all you hear is the signal box knocking as the light turns & turns—headlights & taillights red & blocks away the cities still alive but it’s somewhere else it’s late—a deep conversation sitting on the curb elbows on the grass there’s still a couple places open—July & the air is sweet the temperature of skin—“the night is ours but the day belongs to God”—we’re staying out all night—it’s not a bad thing—there ain’t no trouble but I don’t wanna go back—I don’t wanna go in—love ain’t a sin—no matter where ya  begin—the street lights—the curbstones—the cars roll by—there’s nowhere else that’s right for us but out here on the street—stayin’ out all night—later on spinning records in her room—forever changes & avalon—walking home before the birds start singing—July is the one in the middle of the summer & the night before you know it—I’m in love with you—we’ve got to be free—stayin’ out all night & there was another song that complained about me—but I’ve got to be free—it’s the way that I see—stayin’ out all night—the morning has a charge—a change.   clip above filmed by The Dark Bob

Hoops billyroved my targrave steed & nestled plump round a tingloss window. Weather incensed & multi-coloured poured over the sheep coats, the head-down grazers & anxious swallows & squirrels. Up again & rested as the sun falls, the river rolls, time drips & drops, I’m myself & who else? Recuperation is daily, we’re all on a very short rope & it’s nailed to our hearts. Books are comfort. A warm, well lit lonely & carpeted room, between the beds, on the floor, the drawers are breathing, friendly, the bath a casket, sleep a death & now I’m reborn clean, on another highway. I was nailed to a stick & lifted above the crowd, a clown among clowns, an inflatable fool, nose glowing like a painful red pepper & cheeks rouged- the orchestra played & I was forced to dance: no one fired bullets at my feet—the stage was simply heated & I jumped: the ceiling ripped open by a magic hook on a chain, which was passed through my solar plexus & I was lifted out, to the great relief of all.   It’s a long story of minerals, diamonds of flesh, midnight armies and vegetables at dawn moving in

  https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/Icewater.mp3 The extreme heat caught us by surprise—like a kettle glowing red & too hot to pick up—the city is whistling & shining like an ember—the breeze has collapsed by the shoreline—it’s close—stuffy—skin is tightening on the bones—socks torture the feet—pants discard their owners & walk to the corner for popsicles—my shirt flew like a prehistoric bird & landed on a chair—I lay myself down with the light shut cuz its too exhausting to read & the light cooks the room—the streets are empty—liquid—the back wall of the theater cooked us to a turn—my car is acting my age—refusing to cool—windows are down now—the front door hangs open like a dog’s panting mouth—noise carries on heat waves as a guitar rallies chords & dances with a drummer from the second floor of the ghost ship tenement on the corner—plans are dropped/bets are cancelled—a walking ordeal—no fresh air in my nostrils—and my mouth is cat boxed—forecasts rattle as the girls in their summer clothes loose skirts swirling—as the party turns—heads spinning and hearts beating fast.

The lovely heroes rode together—vanished down the highway then the highway vanished as well—truth went down a wishing well & came back all wet & refreshed—the important moments bookshelved the torrent—the music as usual carried the day—life became livable during the flash—hi jinks—proud dancers—unafraid to stand & deliver—(as a highwayman would say)—my make-up has shifted—hope (I’m not dying but I’m not as charged up in the old places—maps & origins thrilled me once—gatherings of heroes—who I mostly see now not as truth tellers but as easy riders)—that’s fine but what still matters are the songs—& their ability to mesmerize—levitate—that scene where the young woman weeps after the show—& Sam Shepherd talks about the inspiration that was passed on—“a feeling of exhilaration…of being alive” —(he says “sounds corny but it’s true”) –the poets practice precise verbal alchemy—the musicians—not the sidelong glances but the full-eyed performances—Jack Kerouac’s Mexico City Blues read on his grave—Allen Ginsberg’s Kaddish read at a Mah Jong parlor—Bob Dylan’s songs as rocking declaimed poetry in that lineage–Patti Smith’s punk rock in rhythmic language—Joni Mitchell’s soaring moment in the film steals the show then gives it back—Coyote —she studies her own newly written words—then, the story of Hurricane Carter–the

https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/02-Lets-Turn-This-Thing-Around.mp3 [track is peter case with stan ridgway, “Let’s Turn This Thong Around,” available on the Alive/Naturalsound LP/CD  “The Case Files] From the other side of the world the country the city the street the room the far corner of my mind. when was the last time I drew a breath, capsized, trusted in my marksmanship. toed a line that colored outside my time zone? while the restauranteur—gamely offers menus  & shakes hands on our exit—while I grab the waiters hand—the janitor’s un-proffered mitt—calloused—his hands my heart—too many angles repeated every sunset—the repetition of mechanical sounds—also my orders to my self: “go down—sign up—sign in—before you sign off”—bad writing a succession of cheap shots at myself and the same old stories again & the same old fifteen-minute relationship—mean time on the screen—the paper—the airwaves—phone signals trumpet disaster—division—and we can’t escape—caught in the cycle of victimization & torture & limited spectrum culture—“round up the usual bums”—and age is not a number but a series of days stuck—paralyzed—by our own attitudes—and aches & pains—coming on from offstage—on in the bar, wafting in over the baffles—the dividers & predictable “find the exit” pleas. check tour dates: upcoming Pacidic Northwest Tour, UK Tour with