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@Doug Meet
Say it slowly, and think about the words and what they mean to Nashville, TN, the former Religious Publishing Capital of the World, and of the homemade Song Poem Publishing phenomenon, the place who made it not bizarre to tour star's houses while they were in pajamas, and the recovery story from its low ebb, which saw its artists and denizens reeling in an epidemic of almost self-mocking obviousness, the slow burnout of this country's last cocaine epidemic as work brightener, then career ender, whose effect might also have been responsible for some of those unnatural, sometimes wasteful, always unbelievably bold over-treacly waffles of which a country singer complains, his coffee in a high lonesome, at Cantrells, deviated septum ...
i just fell asleep...
then woke up and finished with these thoughts which I have managed to touch on below.
There was a bunch of women working in a tobacco field on a high rolling hill. A lot of them were smoking pipes. I was thinking about living with somebody for all the wrong reasons
- Bob Dylan, to Cameron Crowe (1985)
"I couldn’t quite grasp what [Caribbean Wind] was about after I finished it. Sometimes you’ll write something to be very inspired, and you won’t quite finish it for one reason or another. Then you’ll go back and try and pick it up, and the inspiration is just gone. Either you get it all, and you can leave a few pieces to fill in, or you’re trying always to finish it off. Then it’s a struggle. The inspiration’s gone and you can’t remember why you started it in the first place. Frustration sets in.
I think there’s four different sets of lyrics to this, maybe I got it right, I don’t know. I had to leave it. I just dropped it. Sometimes that happens. I started it in St. Vincent when I woke up from a strange dream in the hot sun. There was a bunch of women working in a tobacco field on a high rolling hill. A lot of them were smoking pipes. I was thinking about living with somebody for all the wrong reasons."
#PeteDrake #Miltown at lunch like #talkingsteelguitar
Can't remember the last time I wrote an Epic poem about a music video:
'... [n]ot the side-effects of the [Corona], I'm viral but it must be love' ... D. Bowie
"Its the one more time revisiting top-five extraterrestrial pieces,
flawlessly frozen forever in a cryogenic deep freeze,
peopled with players whose job it is to make you feel,
this is uncomfortably numbing, not in a good way,
a Miltown at lunch, like Pete Drake and his box,
an atonal dissonant C9 or stranger,
involving floor pulleys bending made
from a round metal bar, scissorhands clawing,
you come to, as you to the floor falling,
Can't remember the last time I wrote an Epic poem about a music video
(@dougmeet)
- Bob Dylan, to Cameron Crowe (1985)
"I couldn’t quite grasp what [Caribbean Wind] was about after I finished it. Sometimes you’ll write something to be very inspired, and you won’t quite finish it for one reason or another. Then you’ll go back and try and pick it up, and the inspiration is just gone. Either you get it all, and you can leave a few pieces to fill in, or you’re trying always to finish it off. Then it’s a struggle. The inspiration’s gone and you can’t remember why you started it in the first place. Frustration sets in.
I think there’s four different sets of lyrics to this, maybe I got it right, I don’t know. I had to leave it. I just dropped it. Sometimes that happens. I started it in St. Vincent when I woke up from a strange dream in the hot sun. There was a bunch of women working in a tobacco field on a high rolling hill. A lot of them were smoking pipes. I was thinking about living with somebody for all the wrong reasons."
#PeteDrake #Miltown at lunch like #talkingsteelguitar
Can't remember the last time I wrote an Epic poem about a music video:
'... [n]ot the side-effects of the [Corona], I'm viral but it must be love' ... D. Bowie
"Its the one more time revisiting top-five extraterrestrial pieces,
flawlessly frozen forever in a cryogenic deep freeze,
peopled with players whose job it is to make you feel,
this is uncomfortably numbing, not in a good way,
a Miltown at lunch, like Pete Drake and his box,
an atonal dissonant C9 or stranger,
involving floor pulleys bending made
from a round metal bar, scissorhands clawing,
you come to, as you to the floor falling,
Can't remember the last time I wrote an Epic poem about a music video
from a round metal bar, scissorhands clawing,
you come to, as you to the floor falling,
Can't remember the last time I wrote an Epic poem about a music video
(@dougmeet)
shot in the 60s, rediscovered (by me) in the 90s, omnipresent, omnipotent, and a thousand times more relevant than its bizarro-country-ish
facade might present. Bump Linda Gail Lewis up to the top of a growing list of past, former, or with a name like hers, a discography like hers, and an injection of Memphis via Ferriday re-certification
as what is mercifully, rightfully her role,
to play, Jerry Lee's once recording, later touring, sister and blood, is there when things get difficult to recall Black River, First Assembly of God, and the loss of the last touchstone to the Gene Autry dusty biopic whose reels spin in the old man's head like they did every Saturday with Jimmy Swaggart, Mickey Gilley,
and
Cecil Harrelson, best friend, whose nickname 'Killer,' you will barely hear, except, barely here, a comment from me, as to my irrational, associative, environmental belief in the legitimacy of the very illegitimate 'belief,' 'acknowledgement,' in the equally scientific, provable quantifier whose charts and calendars you plan your daily conquests, meals, and assignations consulting those tools as non-diviniatory tools in a technologically growing aresenal of weaponized tools, such that what you have come to see as the overriding guide for what you must do and when, from your belief that at the moment of your birth, in whichever position the stars and planets and Houses and celestial bodies and ways and strains and holes and other neighborhoods too far too visit, and I wouldn't want to live there, unless I be able to take my own 'canary in a goldmine,' with me, a chick by the name of Goldilocks, whose infuriating entitlement to require everything perfectly timed, temperatured and placed, is how certain scientists have begun to narrow down the likelihood of sustainability of this planet had it even been ten miles closer to the sun, and which has provided home for a motley group of characters whose seeming hatred for themselves and those whose tribe, sect, denomination, regiment, army, country, ocean, and space, have wanted to kill its other since they were first introduced at some function 16,000 years ago, when Creationists, through the first Home Warming Party whose apparent HOA infractions and eventual freeze outs, some say, began that which is now immutably linked to it, that which is not, nor that which the mafia would gloriously reference, if giants still walked the Earth (I mean, No Show, of course),
but don't.
Because la Cosa Nostre is not only not concerned enough with the state of your Globe and its warming, but is delighted in the fact that you are, in order that during this period of great and unselfish guardianship, you may not notice the newly smouldering trash fires on the horizon, or behind schedule state and city government services whose workers seem exceedingly groggy or variously, overly stimulated, even experiencing some sort of communal relationship with the animals in the parking lots which they had formerly eschewed, shooed, and chewed, dependent on their liking and mood, or that of their Godfather's ...
nominative determinant and simultaneously prevented him from ever naming faded faces, different towns, sobriquet imbued with American love of the Gangster and Cowboy in black whose ass Autry chased, whose everything touched of its own life it redoubled, twice the burden, returns unguaranteed endorsed hardcore acolytes goin' on the Instagram right now, as we speak, so to speak, which might introduce,
Pete Drake, his eeriness who can't be denied, David Lynch, easiest and disturbingly, most accurate, wholesome eerie solemness in inappropriately the Mother of All Mother Churches, an unholy unsanctified altar whose clergy hailed from hollers, behind favelas, if there'd been any, and definitely behaved like records, if only in the facility and ease with which they went around men,
but here,
their 'Grand' is beaumonde and their 'Opry' is 'Ol,' derisively diminutive, like some of the short statured diminuitive stars we worship, they did the same from Lil Abner's homespinning, come homespun in its winning; forget you your Wodehouse, bite open with teeth a Moonpie and an RC Cola if you want some relief;
what and whom are macaroons and Earl Gray.
A little bit country, a little bit Rock 'n' Roll, a little bit NASA, a little bit Computer Punch Cards, inventing Japanese Word Processing, Spellchecking, and firsts, seconds, and thirds invented in Nashville, experimented on in a familiar sounding garage not in Silicone Valley (Google Webb Pierce Guitar-shaped swimming pool), but where Bob Moore (bassist) Stevie R's dad did more scales by noon than El Chapo Sinaloa Cartel and with twice the work ethic, whose sessionography is used to counterweight terabytes,
and
whose bass employs a stool for its bottom, the most louche posturing Country music shrugged off shoulder and gave up on, since miniskirts dropped from the sky into the Cumberland, after some wiseacre called Tom T. Hall wrote a story,
then tried lyrics after a night full of greasy food, and an unhealthy allegiance to view solo but as if great friends with the host of his favorite television series at the moment, whose orbit the song it was that he would inspire, credit for the greasy food can only be mentioned as unprofitable and improbably litigated at the time during the good ol' days of torts and their enjoyment of non-protectionism from the gladhanded Dixiecrats who have now switched horse in midstream and whose river runs half as deep even though its still water is ... 'Still...' Bill Anderson, please speak up. It is long before Michael Stipe will steal your murmur and it is way before you will have to party with that TNN puppet whose attentions seem to even befuddle you as to where do you stare and why into a dummy's eyes?
Coming...
from Rod Steiger, or 1980s Printer's Alley dancer at Skull's Printers Alley Rainbow (just holla, she'll hollaback), the southern Salome whose last question before shaking off her order was always, fries?, served up a head of John Baptist every Seventh Veiled performance Burlesque would draw prizes for, and whose I am told by those in the know who'd know when it came to these things... whose cards were Oscar Wilde.
Recumbent, abundant, adumbrate encumbrances, whose fundament sat ineloquent by comparement among the redundant preponderant of foods to despoil the wonderment, moon-red banquettes, white serviettes, and skinny ecdysists who brought their erector sets in case you forgot, or were too shy to request, Nashville Burlesque.