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.