Stetson—a soft brown furry crown a circle round my skull a stetson hat–a worn protection https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/17-Paradise-Etc..mp3 from solar rays—carried away in a violent wind escaping into traffic like a gum wrapper—a running hat is a dance instructor & a traffic stopper—in the rain it’s my old dog whiffing up by the fire places a cap of my fire and a blindfold in billy goat’s bluff a wheel to be rolled roadside—beats haircuts and leaves a tonsorial bathtub ring on my head–clasp it & it talks—it bows at funerals ducks at Parades it’s a music box its sweat band damp & tightening—don’t let it shrink hats need to stay busy—always above my eyes—a companion half seen like a nose—John B. Stetson—pinned hatband with a feather & a brooch—the sweat bleeds through a salt lick—so a hat is salty—regal—a tierra against disrespect—extra special like a flying wallet against the sun.   Gigs

Righteousness and staying alive  don’t always have that much in common—that’s why your common crook is living like a king—that’s why kings keep counting their gold—the straight forward path—on the square—somehow I slipped into the brambles & lived underneath the bridge—discarded refrigerator boxes—the straight & clear the untroubled glance—the short road from my heart to your ear passes over my lips—what’s the point of living if living the truth is a crime? what’s the point of sweet old age if you wasted all your time? when you draw the line drop the foot & turn your back & spin—there ain’t no point in trouble if there’s no peace in the win—no truth in the win—every bodies stretching out their days into the years—what’s the point of crying if you never count the tears?—and wonder—all you have to do is ask—the truth is served by honest folks—con-men dig their graves—you’re a fool to think it’s cool—tho’ you never have been saved—you didn’t need the savior—you didn’t hear the word—you shrugged your head & walked away—pretended you never heard—the good die young there’s a reason for that—more life ain’t all better life—put that in your hat—  

Let’s see, it was October 1983 and I was still in the Plimsouls, but we had come in from the road, and  had wound down, and I was just knocking about, living alone in a tiny pad up in Laurel Canyon (in the same cottage the Melvins eventually moved into, after I split). I  was writing songs for what was gonna be my first solo LP, and felt like I was on the moon, ’cause I was living at night, isolated, kinda living in my dreams & musical ideas, and I didn’t have to show up anywhere or for anything, it was woodshed time. It was a good time, I was 29 years old, freed up for the first time from a lot of things that had been bugging me. So I picked up the new Dylan LP at Tower on Sunset, and took it straight back home, and threw it on, and was completely transfixed by “Jokerman.” https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/06-Jokerman-1.m4a The first thing that got me about it was the Sly and Robbie groove, unlike anything I’d heard before: it’s not rock or reggae either, but something new, very open. As usual with a Dylan record you hear every word. He

by Jack Kerouac The secret of Shakespeare: two parts: one, he wrote costume poetry for the state — There’s your fortune — Had (amongst his Ovids and Montaignes) a copy of Plutarch’s Lives and a book about Kings of England, and set the scene like a Hollywood Historical Costume Picture (think what he would have done with DeMille equipments on the Redcoats of Canada, the court of Catherine the Great, Napoleon and the whiff of grapeshot) — Made dandies, couriers, ladies, fools and generals and emperors talk with yapping mouths — a bwa a bwa a bwa BOOM! the eannon offstage. This is poetry, dramatic poetry. The vision of life, in which he was swilled like a pearl in a pigsty, a gloriously magnificent singer. “In peace,” he says to the nobles in the boxes, “there’s nothing so becomes a man/as modest stillness and humility;/When the blast of war blows in our ears,/then imitate the action of the tiger.” — This is like Krishna’s advice to the melancholy prince in Bhagavad-Gita. It’s given by King Henry V with scaling-ladder in hand, at Walls of Harfleur Act Ill Sc I, and for reason  “. .you noblest English/Whose blood is fet from

Now that I’m scheduled for another tour of the UK, I’m taking the opportunity to post a review from the last tour. Peter Case in Brighton THURSDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2012 AT 4:06PM The best of Peter Case’s songs suck you in to their own little worlds so deftly that you shiver with the final chord, like shaking awake from a dream. You’ve been there, inside, seeing what he’s been seeing… ‘Entella Hotel’ has a small crowd at Brighton’s Latest Bar rapt and, when it’s evocation of living the lowlife in San Francisco is over, Case’s collaborator tonight, Michael Weston King, speaks for us all: ‘That’s not just one of my favourite Peter Case songs, it’s one of my favourite songs by anyone, ever.’ There are barely thirty people in the room and Case is so good, that’s crazy. I shake his hand afterwards and tell him he should be playing to thousands. ‘Maybe in another life,’ he replies wryly. He’s 58 now and has been making solo albums since his classic self-titled debut in 1986. Prior to that he played in a couple of punky bands the Nerves and the Plimsouls. He’s an accomplished guitarist, picking blues licks on an open-tuned

https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/04-Cant-Stop-Shakin-Demo.mp3 conspiracies–I never thought about them on the grey November—in the backyard with a football—“the president’s been shot”—it never occurred until Rolling Stone started blowing on their trumpet—or maybe news of Garrison—as time passed I began to feel the enormity of the wounds of those killings—then, late nights alone, reading the lore—a quickening of all the senses—life—ah yes—and it made as much sense as the tale of a lone gunman—sympathy & identification with Oswald—not as a killer but as a young lost soul—then feeling the truth was being revealed—as waves of contradiction pursued across the airwaves—lines of print arranged to re-confuse? And explanations for the explanations: the theories soothe, help us deal with the mysterious uncontrollable forces—but the truth mattered & I know a little about that—the sense of truth seems to get stronger as I get older tho’ that may be an illusion—see? you will always struggle with these tales—making sense of evil is a tricky business—and now absurd theories of Clinton sex cults & murders—explain what?—Obama birth in Kenya explains…the theorist’s anxieties—away—a glimpse behind the veil—the curtain that dropped a long time ago—Jon said “watch who keeps winning no matter what.”

https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/05-Never-Comin-Home.mp3 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 sip leads unbearably to the next ’til yr teeth fall out, your waist is dragging like a swollen hula hoop—yr breath is shorter than a fullback’s book report. Sugar has its spot at the very top of the pyramid, like King Tut or the Sphinx—sugar the universal solvent—more potent than alcohol? A brighter name in the Poison Hall Of Fame—oh we all love to lick the pan—let our tongue lead the way through wisps & crisps of alleys & chiffon floating sweetness—her voice was thin & pinched everybody called HER sugar & she gave them something very sweet that soon rotted their teeth—its a ballast without it I

The companionship of Watching The River Flow, later Tangled Up In Blue, and others—Dignity I pulled the car over when I first heard it on the radio—Jokerman–I brought home and alone listening was transfixed—it was riveting—so alive—earlier I learned that white & black folk music go together—that the sound of the words is as important as anything—somehow it led me to Shakespeare—Kerouac also a part of this—the WORD—Eliot as a kid—Stevens—now Notley—that life is an adventure, an opportunity, is important.    Life—is holy—Death so powerful—the mystery—anima—the invisible world—the champions of civil rights—the dignity & value & stature he brought to rock & roll & folk—music etc—is no small thing—he made me want to live, to strive, to contend—wisdom of the street—the vision the powerful sweep & scope—Chimes of Freedom—It’s All Right, Ma—Baby Blue—he sang for freedom of the spirit & the soul—”the guardians and protectors of the mind”–“it is not he or she or them or it that you belong to”– ““an’ mine shall be a strong loneliness dissolvin’ deep/t’ the depths of my freedom/an’ that, then, shall/ remain my song” –“don’t put on any airs when you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue”—“when you ain’t got nothing, you ain’t got nothing

O https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/01-Lost-Time.mp3 (The first track on our first album, “Lost Time,”  featured legendary arranger/ musician Harold Battiste leading a horn section that also included Jackie Kelso from Gene Vincent & the Bluecaps. The horns at one point in the tune backed up a screaming feedback solo from Eddie Munoz. The Plimsouls were hard to categorize but they always rocked. Below is the story of our first ever session with the horns, played by Steve Berlin, and Marty Jourard) Out in Paramount—south of the city–rain in torrents—sandwiched between Downy’s old school working-class and Compton’s black working class & struggle—the main drag—Rosecrans Avenue—on an industrial mini-mall—a rented shell of a room we shared with a band called the Apples—driving in the slanting rain with the wipers full blast dry in the car but all my clothes are damp—from the backseat of Eddies VW bug—Steve Berlin our friend with the tight pants and the tucked in shirt—serious—& Marty from the Motels—each with golden brass saxophones—and we stood in a circle & began to play—Otis & Wilson & the sound of the horns was big & bright & fat & full of wind & force of pride & power—the music came up from under

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.