Timely, but what's up with the friggin' hyphens, Tom?!?
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No!
by Thomas Hood, 1799-1845
No sun–no moon!
No morn–no noon–
No dawn–no dusk–no proper time of day–
No sky–no earthly view–
No distance looking blue–
No road–no street–no 't' other side the way–
No end to any row–
No indications where the crescents go–
No top to any steeple–
No recognitions of familiar people–
No courtesies for showing 'em–
No knowing 'em!–
No travellng at all–no locomotion,
No inkling of the way–no notion–
'No go'–by land or ocean–
No mail–no post–
No news from any foreign coast–
No park–no ring–no afternoon gentility–
No company–no nobility–
no warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member–
No shade, no shine, no betterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,–
November!
I just finished recording a new song that I'm quite happy with, called 'Rocketship Nighlight (or, The Wrath of Boogie)'. It's not up on the site yet, but hopefully it will be soon. It's a toe-tapper for sure.
I had the basics recorded for this song for months, including the jumpy guitar solo. But the lyrics were driving me crazy. Absolutley nothing was presenting itself word-wise, and I was getting impatient. I had a vague melody line for the chorus, but that's it. The last few songs I'd written were an exercise in lyricism for the sake of lyricism, and as it happens I was overjoyed with the results. But there was no true inspiration involved beyond a generic introductory idea (eg, 'How does one feel going to work stuck in LA traffic?' "Dead Man Shuffle" was written an hour later).
So. Usually whenever George W. Bush bullies his way onto my teevee screen I leap for the mute button, as any right-thinking person should. But last week he was babbling inanely about something, and I actually listened. I didn't listen to his pre-planted words, but rather to the inner idiot, the rube that wasn't doing the talking. I saw quite clearly, in one fleeting twitch of his already beady eyes, severe pain. An unfathomably sad longing for his childhood. Boyhood, far away from the White House and the court of world opinion. Shit, even Dubya was a little boy once. I asked myself, 'If Dubya had had a nightlight as a boy, would it be Popeye, a bunny, or a rocket ship?' Duh.
Now, the new song is definitely not about our twit of a president. He doesn't deserve that from me, although one lyric sort of blames him for a flight I almost missed recently. But I'll bet that these days George has prolonged moments of crippling loneliness and doubt, made all the worse because he is so profoundly stupid to begin with. The lyrics I wound up with sort of address that, and also touch on the possibility of some god or another actually talking to him and making absolutely no sense whatever just to fuck with him. I would love to be the god that Dubya worships just for a day, just so I could part the clouds for a minute and yell in his ear, "George, mnorst b'dangle hipnopple, and furthermore thou nast boingy floop ba'dingle zeepyloop ploff on the frim fram immediately, ya big squeezer. Now drop and gimme twenty!!"
"Yes lord, yes lord!!!" Poor, poor bastard.
Lesson for the week; loathing someone doesn't necessarily exclude one from empathy on their behalf. I still loathe the man, and I hold him and his cadre responsible for many of the world's woes. But I'd sure hate to have his job right about now.
By the way, Boogie was Eric Schneider's big, dumb, hot-tempered cat in college. Woe betide those who crossed him or looked at him sideways. I think he chased some drunk idiot down the street after a party for, well, being a drunk idiot. Good kitty.
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Rocketship Nightlight (or, The Wrath of Boogie)
I don’t know about the things I know
Sometimes I have to double check
Some days I’m on top of the world
Some days I’m a nervous wreck
That rocketship nightlight
I’d have it back if only I could
Looking for gods but they’re hard to pin down
So I make them out of funky old wood
Only once in a while, and good for the soul
Nightlight I need you today, but don’t bleed me dry
No we won’t go away
No we’re here to stay
That rocketship nightlight
So sorry. Where did you go?
I sure do need you today but
Mama tossed you a long time ago
One day the gods will look down
And smile upon what you do
With a roar they’ll all proclaim
“We’ve been waiting for a squeezer like you”
Only once in a while, and good for the soul
Nightlight I need you today, but don’t bleed me dry
No we won’t go away
No we’re here to stay
Missed my flight again
Boogie’s coming to get you, George
I've been playing in bands pretty much non-stop since I was thirteen. You'd think I'd have it dialed by now.
It's not uncommon for me to find myself in three or more bands at the same time, playing any number of instruments. I have been known to show up to a gig with the wrong instrument. But the gig this past saturday, fun as it was, made me feel like a total rookie in some ways. I knew it would be a little rough. Our stand-in drummer really didn't know the tunes very well, and I was nervous about that. Thankfully it turned out not to be a complete clam-bake.
A little boring gear talk. My guitar amp these days is a small, inexpensive, low power Vox Pathfinder reissue with which I power a beautiful vintage Vox 2-10 cabinet loaded with the real Bulldog 10" speakers. I think it's a '66 or '67. I generally love the tone I get out of it, and the pair work well together.
But, like any speaker cabinet, it is subject to operator error, and one has to make the effort to plug the damn thing into the amp in order for it to make any noise. In my preoccupation about an impending meltdown of a gig, I dutilessly forgot to plug in the speakers, leaving the poor little Pathfinder to make all the racket with its own little 8" speaker. To make matters worse, the sound guy naturally assumed that the mic belonged on the cabinet and not the amp. He assumed this because I told him. At some point he realized something was wrong, ran up on the stage and moved the mic to the amp rather than plugging in the cabinet. Bad idea.
The always-dreaded words from the sound guy after the set; "No offense, but it sounded like shit."
Moral? Buy a big combo. I miss my Fender Prosonic...