For MLK Day: Len Chandler’s Shadow Dream – in memory of a singer, a movement & its leader
Music
Have You Ever Been In Trouble?
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.
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.
HWY 62 Expanded Edition Available Now.
Buy Now
The Gifts (some notes on Bob Dylan’s 80th Birthday)
Thanks to Bob Dylan, on his 80th birthday for all the gifts he gave to us. Personally, I always feel like it’s Christmas on Earth (as Rimbaud coined it) when I experience Bob singing, speaking, writing, acting, painting and drawing, most whatever he does has been illuminating. I learned about American music and America itself. For me, time stopped when I heard Mr. Tambourine Man for the first time, and shortly after read “Folk-Rock: the Bob Dylan Story” in paperback, (which was very misleading in, but also enlightening in some ways.) By the time I was 14 I’d heard his first several albums, read the poems enclosed with the third album, 11 Outlined Epitaphs, started learning the songs in the Bob Dylan Songbook I received as a gift in 1966, listened over and over to HWY 61 through John Wesley Harding, then read Tarantula from a mimeograph while high on mescaline, and weeping, in 1971, in my first room away from home, with the Dont Look Back poster on the wall, hidden when the door opened, that movie, then companionship on the bank of sand Watching The River Flow, later the generational tale of Tangled Up In Blue, and all the 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 he taught us that all the American folk music belongs 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—to Eliot when I was a kid—Stevens–Ginsberg–Kaufman—now Notley–Tongo Eiesen-Martin-—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 and value and stature he brought to rock n’roll and 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 and scope—Chimes of Freedom—It’s All Right, Ma—Baby Blue—he sang for freedom of the spirit and 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 to lose” —“she’s got everything she needs she’s an artist, she don’t look back” —“she never stumbles, she’s got no place to fall”– like Bob in ’64-’65—(“he never stumbled” said Penny)– when I was a teen—“somebody got lucky but it was an accident”– “goin’ back to New York City I do believe I’ve had enough”– (marvelling at the chaos of life and New York.) The beauty of Girl From The North Country—Went To See The Gypsy hit me in my 1971 isolation—at my biker friend Rose’s Cadillac dealership, waiting in the parking lot for her to get off work– in the days before I left town for good—the last song that moved me like that for a while—’til Billy—which also I loved and identified with–Billy’s trouble as I was on the lam 70’s style—so vivid and finally got that great inscription in the pink lyrics book perused at the SF bookstore two thousand miles from my home—“to all those high on life—from all corners of the wild blue yonder.”
–PC 2016
* Long Time Gone, an early Dylan song, from my cd “HWY 62” on Omnivore Recordings, 2016.
Full Concert Video: Tales of the Tavern, February 2020
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.
Staying Out All Night
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
Can’t Stop Shakin’ & I Don’t Know Why
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.”