you and your rhythm sticks
hit/song/hit/song/hit/song/
repetition makes it strong
decades of stadia;
billions have gone along
for the thrill of Phil
Collins-if you didn’t feel it in the air
you must have been in an air raid shelter
or something
Lady Di’s drummer boy,
pumping up the 80’s
hit/song/hit/song/hit/song
thickening our skin
and maybe its sustainable
but its probably not
judging by your mess
we’re all victims
of your success
God didn’t say shit
until he knew all that spit
and sawdust was going to hold up.
But what he said there was, so
there was sound
before light and sight
and black and white.
Just at the fork of the fifties
lightning struck on fertile ground,
splitting the narrative,
a gyrating dream out of the dream,
of the gutter, twisting
out of the guts of America,
self-delivered royalty of hillbilly soil,
all hail:
king of the rednecks.
We heard the news
before we saw it:
there would be good rocking tonight,
and indeed it came to El Paso.
They pinned the sin on him
-the first firework
before the pyrotechnical sky
we’ve lived under since-
gasping in their bobby-sox
and flattops, grasping
at the subtext, this was the best
thing America had to offer
wasn’t it? Better than
the hula-hoop, Frank Sinatra..
oh the nostalgia, the dream;
he was fluttering, pristine
-before the flares, the amphetamines,
and the effect, a rippling rhythm
that would build, seismically
shake, rattle the walls of the city..
the rise and then
the splendorous demise;
the dream: duplicated
the myth: inflated
the man: medicated
Eden’s blue suede skies
mushroom clouded,
and so from green to gold,
a cabaret crucifixion,
and Memphis sank to grief
for all women, men
same old blues;
new Jerusalem.
God didn’t say shit
until he knew all that spit
and sawdust was going to hold up.
But what he said there was
so there was sound
before light and sight
and black and white
just at the fork of the fifties
lightning struck on fertile ground,
splitting the narrative,
a dream from the dream,
gyrating out of the guts of America,
out of the gutter, self-delivered
of hillbilly soil, royalty-all hail:
king of the rednecks
we heard the news
before we saw it
there would be good rocking tonight,
and indeed it came to El Paso
they pinned the sin on him
-the first firework
before the pyrotechnical sky
we’ve lived under since-
gasping in their bobby sox
and flattops, grasping
at the subtext, this was the best
thing America had to offer
wasn’t it? Better than
the hula-hoop, Frank Sinatra..
oh the nostalgia, the dream;
fluttering, pristine
-before the flares, the amphetamines,
a rippling rhythm effect
that would build, seismically
and wobble the walls of the city
the rise and then
the splendorous demise
Eden’s blue suede skies
mushroom clouded,
the dream: duplicated
the myth: inflated
the man: medicated
and so Memphis
and all women and men
sank to grief, again.
The musical mind is willing,
willingness is the first rule;
it made folk club
and folk club is week..ly
and has been for years
and so years have turned us
into a circle, forged through our sharing,
proximity and returning for turn-taking,
a circle-stretched but unbroken-
of attentive travellers,
us and others, song laden, all set
to the same body clock,
the same locality, bringing
our many stringed things
unhooded from cases
circulating a pleasing breeze
of voices, accord, applause;
together we have become a gathering,
a resonant collection of familiar faces
that have made a sound board
for testing, seeing how sound floats
as its launched from your lungs
and hands (accord, applause)
all parts a sum now
after so many years of us
lifting our same souls above
the buzz of booze, through songs
tunes, words; singing to each other
not clinging to each other
because folk club is tired..
Through ears, into blood; music
in us, appreciative of such things
but where is the new blood?
It has to come, as it always has,
through willingness.
I remember the man playing
guitar in the garden.
We had been up all night,
on common land
keeping a fire going.
I was young then and that’s long gone
but nothing’s turned me on
as much as that man playing guitar,
as if he was feeding bread
from his doorstep, where he sat,
with us in the lane; unfased by daylight.
His hands broke exotic chords
in approval for our wild night;
for us, still children, by embers glowing.
He played with a welcoming
and a blessing and a message that said:
travel.
Don’t stay here like sparrows forever,
let your soul stand
as tall as your body
and take off…
He played, like a fisherman
to us there with nowhere better to be.
He cast in first light that sound
that almost grew out of the ground,
for a long time for us there…
And now, no matter where
I take my guitar, my guitar
takes me back to that garden.
Before he comes he always brushes up,
glancing as he does at the little portable mirror
that he clips on his neck to remove
all the plaque of slackening he can.
He always arrives punctually for his check-up,
fragrantly, in an expensive sweater
and compliantly shows me
his majors and his minors.
He flashes them, exposing any decay
of the building blocks that need
scraping, polishing; I’m looking for fillings,
any need for drillings and soon
our senses move beyond
enamel; we’re singing, he’s open
to extractions and after an hour of it
we stop, he spits,
washes away the deadness from
his sharpened musical teeth
so he can get the most
from another week of chewing alone.
Mongrels of glamour,
I will look you in your
lucky faces, glad ragged,
softly lit for this album cover
respite from your storm,
your stomping,
reputed stage thrillers,
up the top twenty, into the top ten
to the top of the charts..
Pedigrees like your David Bowies
made you think you could do it too
-the naiveties of the seventies-
you platformed and glistened
around your 12 bars, stripey, checked,
with your moth eaten mullets-
and you packed them in.
Before the reality check of punk
it was Crackerjack, it was you.
Pulled down now like polystyrene tiles
or removed like asbestos, hazardous-
most of that culture has been knocked down.
I find window frames in skips
I look through them, laugh and say
‘what were they thinking?’
I remember the man playing guitar in the garden.
We had been up all night,
keeping a fire going;
I was young then and that’s long gone
but nothings turned me on
as much that man playing guitar.
As if he was feeding bread
from his doorstep to us
well settled, unfased by daylight,
his hands breaking exotic chords
in approval for our wild night
for us children by glowing embers,
with a welcoming and a blessing
and a message that said: Travel.
Don’t stay here like sparrows forever,
let your soul stand
as tall as your body
and take off..
he played, like a fisheman
to us there with nowhere better to be
he played, like a fisherman
for a long time for us there
and now, no matter where I take my guitar
my guitar takes me back to that garden.
My Deerboy 