Bluebird — Photo-artistry by kenne
Archive for the ‘Tom Russell’ Category
“On A Poor Man’s Dream” 2 comments
A Noble Scoliid Wasp On A Spreading Fleabane Leave a comment
A Noble Scoliid Wasp On A Spreading Fleabane — Image by kenne
Beyond the shadows, beyond the rain
Beyond the darkness and all the pain
When you’re walkin’ in circles with holes in your shoes
Love is the road that leads beyond the blue
— from Beyond the Blues by Tom Russel
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Songs With The Word ‘Tucson’ In Them Leave a comment
Yesterday the Arizona Daily Star published an article titled “31 songs that have the word ‘Tucson’ in them.” Of course, it go my attention
so I read the article figuring that one of my favorite singer-songwriters would be included in the 31 songs, Tom Russell, who penned
The Ballad of Edward Abbey — he was not. I guess the list was not intended to be comprehensive.
It was in the town of Tucson in Nineteen Eighty-Three
A man named Edward Abbey come a walking up to me
He pulled his cigar from his mouth, said, «I smell lawyers here»
The politician, running-dogs, they crawled away in fear
Singing do-ra-do
Singing do-ra-day
Ed walked across the desert at least a thousand times
He spoke with javelina, slept ‘neath piñon pine
And if he saw a billboard there, he’d chop that bastard down
Said, if a man can’t piss in his own front yard, he’d never keep close to town
Singing do-ra-do
Singing do-ra-day
Lord, I wish Edward Abbey were walking round today
Ed had a taste for women, in fact he married quite a few
He said, «I’d fall in love, boys, but I’m only passing through
You know I like ’em all, boys, and some more than the rest
I’ve tried my hand at monogamy, now I’m off to save the west
Singing do-ra-do
Singing do-ra-day
Ed died one day at sundown in his Tucson riding shack
They wrapped him in a sleeping bag and drove him way out back
Beneath the wild saguaro, the coyotes chewed his bones
And on a hidden marker, was ‘No Comment’, carved in stone
Singing do-ra-do
Singing do-ra-day
Yeah, I wish Edward Abbey were walking round today
Now I’m living in the desert, but the town is a-closing in
Those cracker box developments, Ed would call a sin
We stole this land from the Mexican and now we’ll sell it back
And they’ll live like mortgage prisoners in those goddamn housing tracts
Tell me, who votes for the mountain lion, tell me, who votes for the fox
Who votes for the spotted owl who hides there in the rocks
I wish that Ed would come again with a chainsaw in his hand
And carve all up those housing tracts and take on back the land
Singing do-ra-do
Singing do-ra-day
Yeah, I wish Edward Abbey were walking round today
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Its Veteran’s Day, 2022 2 comments
Sgt. 1st Class Lance Amsden, platoon sergeant for the 1st Platoon, Company C, 1st Battalion, 501st Infantry Regiment, 4th Brigade Combat Team (Airborne),
25th Infantry Division, watches as CH-47 Chinook Helicopters circle above during a dust storm at Forward Operating Base Kushamond, Afghanistan, July 17,
during preparation for an air-assault mission.
— Army Flickr Stream
On this Veteran’s Day, in honor of those who served and died, I share this song written and recorded by Tom Russell, which was also recorded by Johnny Cash.
One of the blogs I follow is So Far From Heaven. Old Jules writes about his old running buddy, Phil:
“I hadn’t thought about my old running buddy, Phil, for a while. That last blog entry got me chewing on thoughts of him. I’ll tell you a bit more about him.
Phil went to the Marine Corps as the result of being a 17-year-old driving from Temple, Texas, to Austin with a case of beer in the car. A Williamson County Sheriff’s Deputy stopped him on a tail light violation, asked for his driver’s license, and saw the case of beer. Old Phil, being a clever youth, gave the officer a Texas Drivers License with an altered date of birth so’s to keep from being arrested as a minor in possession of alcoholic beverages.”
Veteran’s Day
Well I used to hang out down at the VFW hall
And stare at the photographs up on the wall
Of the neighborhood boys that died
in the wars we’ve been through
And the hand lettered sign that said
remember Jimmy McGrew
Well Jimmy went to Nam back in 1965
But there’s a lot of men here that think
Jimmy McGrew’s still alive
Though they carved his name
on a stone in Washington DC
His brother said that stone
don’t prove a thing to me
It’s veteran’s day and the skies are gray
Leave the uniforms home cause
there ain’t gonna be a parade
But we’ll fill up a glass for the ones
that didn’t make it through
And leave a light in the window tonight
for Jimmy McGrew
Well I used to hang out down at the VFW hall
And stare at the photographs up on the wall
Of the neighborhood boys that died
in the wars we’ve been through
And the hand lettered sign that said
remember Jimmy McGrew
Well Jimmy went to Nam back in 1965
But there’s a lot of men here that think
Jimmy McGrew’s still alive
Though they carved his name
on a stone in Washington DC
His brother said that stone
don’t prove a thing to me
It’s veteran’s day and the skies are gray
Leave the uniforms home cause
there ain’t gonna be a parade
But we’ll fill up a glass for the ones
that didn’t make it through
And leave a light in the window tonight
for Jimmy McGrew
— Tom Russell
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This Blue-winged Bird 1 comment
Eastern Bluebird (August 8, 2012) Image by kenne
He had a blue wing tattooed on his shoulder
Well, it might have been a bluebird, I don’t know
But he’d get stone drunk and talk about Alaska
But he’d get stone drunk and talk about Alaska
The salmon boats and 45 below
He got that blue wing up in Walla Walla
Where his cellmate there was a Little Willy John
And Willie, he was once a great blues singer
And Wing & Willie wrote him up a song
Where his cellmate there was a Little Willy John
And Willie, he was once a great blues singer
And Wing & Willie wrote him up a song
(They sang,)
“It’s dark in here, can’t see the light
But I look at this blue wing when I close my eyes
And I fly away, beyond these walls
Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
But I look at this blue wing when I close my eyes
And I fly away, beyond these walls
Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
On a poor man’s dream”
— from Blue Wing by Tom Russell
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Another Existential Moment — Charles Bukowski Leave a comment
Charles Bukowski
Tom Russell has great respect for Warren Zevon’s work, but probably none more than “Carmelita,” which he combines
with Charles Bukowski’s, “Crucifix In A Deathhand,” on his Modern Art CD. By putting the two together, Russell
demonstrates his appreciation and understanding of Bukowski’s words and the lyrics of Warren Zevon. It just so happens
that “Crucifix In A Deathhand” is my favorite Bukowski poem.
Crucifix In a Death Hand
yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
the starch mountains begin out in the willow
and keep right on going without regard for
pumas and nectarines
somehow these mountains are like
an old woman with a bad memory and
a shopping basket.
we are in a basin. that is the
idea. down in the sand and the alleys,
this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,
held like a crucifix in a deathhand,
this land bought, resold, bought again and
sold again, the wars long over,
the Spaniards all the way back in Spain
down in the thimble again, and now
real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway
engineers arguing. this is their land and
I walk on it, live on it a little while
near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms
listening to glazed recordings
and I think too of old men sick of music
sick of everything, and death like suicide
I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your
hold on the land here it is best to return to the
Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,
the poor . . . I am sure you have seen these same women
many years before
arguing
with the same young Japanese clerks
witty, knowledgeable and golden
among their soaring store of oranges, apples
avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers –
and you know how these look, they do look good
as if you could eat them all
light a cigar and smoke away the bad world.
then it’s best to go back to the bars, the same bars
wooden, stale, merciless, green
with the young policeman walking through
scared and looking for trouble,
and the beer is still bad
it has an edge that already mixes with vomit and
decay, and you’ve got to be strong in the shadows
to ignore it, to ignore the poor and to ignore yourself
and the shopping bag between your legs
down there feeling good with its avocados and
oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles, who needs
a Fort Lauderdale winter?
25 years ago there used to be a whore there
with a film over one eye, who was too fat
and made little silver bells out of cigarette
tinfoil. the sun seemed warmer then
although this was probably not
true, and you take your shopping bag
outside and walk along the street
and the green beer hangs there
just above your stomach like
a short and shameful shawl, and
you look around and no longer
see any
old men.
– – Charles Bukowski (Source: Oldpoetry.com)
There’s a video on YouTube of Russell in a live performance talking and singing about Charles Bukowski, Warren Zevon, and Dave Van Ronk that will give you a better feel for this morning distraction.
— kenne
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Folk Singer Leave a comment
“Folk Singer” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Who’s Gonna Build Your Wall? by Tom Russell on His Album Wounded Heart of America (2007)
“Maybe it’s not about happy ending.
Maybe it’s about the story.”
— Albert Camus
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A Solute To The Common Man Leave a comment
“The Common Man” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Poetry and Music Soluting The Common Man.
Julian Tuwim’s poem nails it.
In my younger days,
I worked with many a Harlan Clancy —
Tom Russell writes and sings
about in the album “Folk Hotel,”
referencing Aaron Copland’s anthem,
“Fanfare for the Common Man.”
In those early days,
the winters could be harsh,
and having spent many
a Christmas in the cold north,
I end this trilogy to The Common Man
with Merle Haggard,
“If We Make It Through December.”
— kenne
The Common Man
When plastered billboards scream with slogans
‘fight for your country, go to battle’
When media’s print assaults your senses,
‘Support our leaders’ shrieks and rattles…
And fools who don’t know any better
Believe the old, eternal lie
That we must march and shoot and kill
Murder, and burn, and bomb, and grill…
When press begins the battle-cry
That nation needs to unify
And for your country you must die…
Dear brainwashed friend, my neighbor dear
Brother from this, or other nation
Know that the cries of anger, fear,
Are nothing but manipulation
by fat-cats, kings who covet riches,
And feed off your sweat and blood – the leeches!
When call to arms engulfs the land
It means that somewhere oil was found,
Shooting ‘blackgold’ from underground!
It means they found a sneaky way
To make more money, grab more gold
But this is not what you are told!
Don’t spill your blood for bucks or oil
Break, burn your rifle, shout: ‘NO DEAL!’
Let the rich scoundrels, kings, and bankers
Send their own children to get killed!
May your loud voice be amplified
By roar of other common men
The battle-weary of all nations:
WE WON’T BE CONNED TO WAR AGAIN!
— Julian Tuwim
Tim Russell writes, Harlan Clancy
“. . . out there in the middle of Ohio,
a place you’ll never likely go . . .
Euro tourists never make it there . . .
the America of the shit jobs, farms,
remote ranches, wrecking yards,
inner-city brothels, shooting galleries,
used car lots, and back street bars that
still have Narco corridos, or Otis Redding,
or George Jones on the jukebox.”
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A Labyrinth of Wild Flowers Leave a comment
A Labyrinth of Wild Flowers — Image by kenne
I’ll give to you a house of mirrors
A thousand eyes, they belong to you
A labyrinth of wild roses
I know you’ll find your own way through
— from Box of Visions by Tom Russell
Tom Russell with Iris Dement — Box of Visions (Audio)
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She Is Reaching Out Her Arms Leave a comment
Image by kenne
She is reaching out her arms tonight,
Lord, my poverty is real
I pray roses shall rain down again,
from Guadalupe on her hill
and who am I to doubt these mysteries?
Cured in centuries of blood and candle smoke
I am the least of all your children here,
but I am most in need of hope.
She appeared to Juan Diego,
she left her image on his cape
five hundred years of sorrow,
cannot destroy their deepest faith
so here I am, your ragged disbeliever,
old doubting Thomas drowns in tears
as I watch your church sink through the earth,
like a heart worn down through fear
She is reaching out her arms tonight. . .
— from Guadalupe by Tom Russell
