https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/03-Down-1.mp3 Kool Trash (1998) Another in our series of Kool Trash posts.This song is about two kids showing up in the big town on the day of the riot. I’m playing the lead guitar on this one, as well as the rhythm. Eddie’s in there somewhere. I play almost this whole album in C tuning…

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Hi everybody! I’m back home in San Francisco after nearly five weeks on the road. That may or may not sound like much, but it was a trip, forty-five hundred miles in my pal Paul Luc’s Jeep, also plane flights, and an additional five hundred miles on the roads down in Louisiana for the South Louisiana Songwriter’s Festival, which was a blast. Let’s see,first, the gigs: Saint Louis at the new Stage at KDHX, a fun gig, a fresh venue, a good audience and a recently tuned piano. I ended the set with an instrumental, a version of John Coltrane’s Naima, which became a fixture of the show as the tour progressed. It’s the first time ever for me to feature an instrumental. It’s a beautiful tune, and reminded some listeners of of Jimi Hendrix’s more lyrical jams. Coltrane, people, “Listen to more Coltrane!” Paul Luc was opening the show with a set of his own songs, and went down great everywhere. Check out his new album if you can, he’s a strong writer with a unique voice, he’s really got it, if you know what I mean. I enjoyed the chance to hear him on this tour and began

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“Pay attention. It’s all about paying attention. Attention is vitality. It connects you with others. It makes you eager, stay eager.” A writer, I think, is someone who pays attention to the world.”  –Susan Sontag —— “Every hundred feet the world changes.”   –Roberto Bolano   1) ” WHOSE KID IS THAT?” songs language must be at least that powerful. 2) development: something happens 3) writing practice that draws from experience of the concrete world —– “Negative Capability”   ” I IS SOMEONE ELSE”   –from the second verse of “long, good time” Sweet little flowers called snowdrops in the backyard with the fresh mint leaves A cherry tree with a rope to climb & robins nests under the eaves My band was playing in the basement driving folks out of their minds Mother called down from the top of the steps “Boys, play that nice song about suicide”     Songs can be written so you can walk into any place in the country and sing them and people will “get it.”   Is songwriting an art, or a craft? Either way, the words have a double meaning.   Art is many things, but one definition would be: Art

Songwriter’s Workshop USE TOOLS 1)Notebook: collect titles and phrases flow: a) object writing, b) sketching c) journal d) people places times e) couplets—rhyming dictionary f) the bones g) words in keys, or suits—metaphors, imagery h) mining this writing for song ideas and lines, etc.   2) The Harmonized Scale I—IIm—IIIm—IV—V—VIm—VIIdim—I 3) Progressions, substitutions building blocks of popular music I—VIm—IIm—V7 (Rhythm changes)  or I—VIm—IV—V7   I—IV—V—IV—I   (La Bamba)   I—IIm—IIIm—IV—V  (Like A Rolling Stone)   I—VI—II—V7  (Salty Dog, ragtime)   I—bVII—IV—I   (rock, Gloria) I—IV—bIII—bVI)   (Nirvana) Im—bVII—bVI—V7  (Hit The Road Jack, Spanish, Latin American) I—III7—IV—I—V7—I   (Pallet On Your Floor)   substitutions, major for minor, minor for major bVII chord  (Bb in C)       •see substitution chart handed out in class •modes  “the scales on the white keys, starting at each note from C up”   4) Nonsense— “tongues”  as a key to creativity “I is another.” 5) Rhythm and melody 6) Listening for and recognizing inspiration. “Develop a friendly attitude toward your own thoughts.” 7)Desires and Fears  (are vision.) 8) Learn your favorite songs and sing them. 9)Work out melodies on the piano and accapella. 10) Absolute freedom in secret notebooks! 11)  Put what you love

https://petercase.com/wp-content/uploads/02-Lets-Turn-This-Thing-Around.mp3 talking louder than you & you never have his attention, it’s a no-reply zone & its hopeless, you can tell by the tics of his face, the turns of his head to watch anything but you, you’re not equals and there will be no conversation. Laws don’t apply & why should they I wanted to be your friend back when you presented the humble persona, lips composed in a tight smile, the one yr women like, you figure—egotism works for a living & sings for its supper but now theres no control—yr always helpless in the face of yr next whim—yr like a coach delivering a pep talk all day—you speak to people as if they’re an adoring crowd—belief in nothing is possible under special circumstances—the jungle powers effect—big beasts only need apply—scrutiny dampens desire—but its all about the performance—in bed devolving into a service job for someone—constant lies are necessary now—its all about the attenuated attention span—the inability to listen to another  to read the situation—its the end of the day so you do the little things you like to do—but sleep won’t come yr mind is racing from a sleight—brush yr teeth polish yr nails—or better yet—have

I wish I was somewhere far away on the side of a mountain—sleeping on the floor with a couple of blankets & a bowl of rice—distance—the kiss of the new encounter—aroma of a different egg & leg—so tired of getting’ up & goin’ to school everyday—’til the juice is sucked out of every orange leaving only freeze dried tomatoes—the stranger with a brand new three minute relationship—up all night & wandering to break the spell again—they wanted him in office to throw a wrench in the system—the dog’s been asleep on the floor for hours—but shying away from the broken plans, shattered marriages, the violence of domestic change—out the front door in the mist of early dawn & down the street in the sunlight “bound & determined” ha ha—throw over the sure things, the subscribed, the drills, the calisthenics of boredom, whats the point of living forever in a grind—my back is sore from a chair, my hands ache, the cuppa tea, the same old boring pajama game, throw it over, break out, like never before, “I’ll try something new” sang Smokey, tears are a good sign, shivers another, blood red inspiration, the image that won’t quit, the obsession you

patient & strong  grey bristle-haired & cute, stubborn according to legend, silent in speech except for their call, the horn-like voice, four feet on the ground, straw bound and watching always watching—swishing flies with their broom-like tails—the soft snoot the adjustable & attenuated pointed twitching ears, the huge forward teeth in rows chewing corn, hay, carrots—the silky muzzle—the forbearance of the animal—here in all being but a passenger amongst humans—no they’ve been passengered but carry men women & children on their backs—the odors of dirt & manure—hay & the dry breeze—in their little barn over the hill & dale of Caulkins’ farm—which was really just a place, a home, with donkeys—four of them that we’d visit—Jesus arrives in Jerusalem, the Kings enters on a donkey’s back, greeted by seismic crowds, waving palm fronds—was the little animal frightened? Did jesus ride side-saddle? Was the donkey rewarded in Heaven or on Earth? The wild burros of Hawaii, on the big island, wandering the black volcanic ash & fields by the blue ocean—life of a donkey equals low man on the totem pole—the respect and trust of Balthazar—traded & whipped from town to town—credited as living brick but a donkey can feel, is