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.

Bill Evans if you’ve ever fallen in love with someone and its late at night & time stops–the futures beautiful but sad and pretty complicated the way the moments of glory become the next moments of doubt–life & death putting off the disaster–the reckoning–the bill will come due–the piper will be paid in full at midnight—tho’ the air is clear the horns are muted the traffic outside occasional–a whoosh & the moon crawls over–the stars wheel & you fall asleep earlier than me it’s all worth it to be here with you–it’s ok we’ll pay & live to see another day–some better & some worse blue shades drawn green sky at dawn & the moments balanced on a crescent. A kiss the touch of your skin the beating of our hearts–our breaths entwined it’s good now & true forever as the clock turns eternity on its wheel [head] I don’t know what will happen–we’ve thrown the dice–picked up the phone & dialed heaven—there will be a moment and a series & an epoch—the night will answer our fears & it’s on our side no running now stand up and take it–three a.m. forever–melts into lessons–trials melt into sentences–sentences into freedom and we’re free to love forever, tonight Blue In Green: https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/03-Blue-In-Green.m4a

the one who led you on into the night following a musical call—we poured our hearts out into the charge of the air—gave up the separations & intellectual positions & walls of reserve—it melted at the pitch & we all went with it—there was no right or wrong—no individuals, just waterfalls of roaring sound—a surrender to the light & the rumble of quick silver, mercury, molten steel, red elastic, death defeated just for a while, lost the voice talking to me now its drained out—these were the moments we chased—loud electric rock & roll—a mess—no concise message but a big fat head & mouth—rewarded by the love & charm of the crowd—they crushed together too, in the heat, the jostling, the tight contact of bodies—nothing reserved nothing hidden—& the music hit moments where it seemed to create itself—spring out of there with new power—I’d always hold a little back—style in these moments—the jacket shed     the hair      sweaty & messed  the roar of guitar feedback  & drum rolls      Dionysius—God against death—the poison the trance the escape—

https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/PC-Bumble-Bee-day-1_01.m4a 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 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 I still didn’t know what the people upstairs were up to with that crazy

my themes from the first— time passing, watching the clock in a confined and false reality—trusted friends, soldier boys who stand aloof from the world—love as masquerade—hanging in & hangin’ on—hoping for a change a miracle–looking romance in the eye—watching the streets & the horizons—for a shift—resentment at police pressure on my dream life & physical existence—time and distance—seemingly impossible to bridge—stranded—need for love—the escape of prisoners—the dream going bust after going for broke–a magic touch—impossible situations against terrible odds, slim chances seized—escape routes in everyday life—justice—it’s perversion and potential—desperate situations met with a plea for simple magic-like talk—reaching out to the sidewalk refugees & closet suicides offering a spiritual solution & some companionship—the surrealism of Big Town Saturday Night  America, of small town walkers on that same big evening—staying out all night avoiding the curfew—under stars & streetlights  the waxing & waning moons—desperate attempts against time, isolation, “normal” life, longing for beauty contact & love with the sympathetic spirits—the victims of violence struggle for sanity, serenity, dreams, visions, reality.

https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/02-Dig-What-Youre-Putting-Down.mp3 primitive—from the heart the parts the tongue of your enemy licking you—physical not diffused through prismatic gimmicks—from low below the belt—courageous—or? impulsive simplicity—directness—sweat on the brow—bursting against the seams—hungry—the lunge of need—fear of eclipse—dancing to extinguish terror—sex over death—ego over sacrifice—Jesus not a primitive—Holy Ghost? fighting with your own self—dirt—blood—saliva—come—raised voices chanting—wood smoke—torches—heavy drumming on logs—poison leaves—itching from teas—fear of strangers—not arguing the points!—no poetry outside of desire—descriptions of fulfillment—wonder at sexual favor ok—amazement of size—power of personality—deep feeling—Justice?—not about memories but in the present—breathing through nose hairs—the surprising sensation of a punch in the nose —the heat felt in dryness—watching through windows after dark.

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.

https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/10-Many-Roads-to-Follow.m4a 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 outstretched) & 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

https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/See-Through-Eyes.mp3 out on the chilly winds  & fog—the breakers breaking the waves waving goodbye & the whales wailing under the railings of the golden alley bridge—a world wide -retro-coop, super group—a pox o’yr swindle yr bag of used tools—the prez is leering from a Lear jet—and cargo boats with soggy bottoms & pastel hills & primary containers jelly fish out into the harbor—pass water the gate & motivate—east to Hong Kong—Singapore—Peking don’t forget to duck—weighed down with boxcar size quantities of gargle, paddle balls looking for a racket, kittens prowl the poop deck, the first mate he got drunk, climbed a mast to masticate, wrote a letter to the magistrate, bought a parcel of promised land by the acre–by the time I got to the taste of ashes–songs composed on ouija boards, the ouija bored itself—the ships cutting through the scar & sky blue empress of the package & always lick your stamps before dropping them in the box–Mr Lucky Reels, the Hambone Sisters grimace, Skye Page gathers trinkets, soldiers on glass elevators throw stones at Billy Boy who drools like a crooner.