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
Well, it might have been a bluebird, I don’t know 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
(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
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.
Yellow-eyed Junco On Old Mining Wheel — Image by kenne
Old friends? They mostly vanish, they are ghosts out on the road Some turned around, threw up their hands, and disappeared Like old folk songs, their stories change, fairytales of love and pain Another verse, another chorus, one more year.
— from The Light Beyond the Coyote Fence by Tom Russell
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 The salmon boats and 45 below
Well, he got that blue wing up in Walla Walla and his cellmate there was a Little Willy John and Willie, he was once a great blues singer so Wing & Willie wrote him up a song
Kenne & Joy In New Orleans (12/26/07) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Decatur Street, New Orleans (12/26/07) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Heart Within A Heart
Ther is a heart within your heart A place go when all the trouble starts When your world spins upside down and falls apart There is a heart within your heart
There is a soul within your soul A secret room only angels know Come on baby, leave your fear, rise up and go To the soul within the soul
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.”
I can’t think of bluebirds without thinking of Tom Russell’s song, “Blue Wing” — one of my favorite. Both help me see the sky above.
— kenne
Blue Wing by Tom Russell
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 The salmon boats and 45 below
He said he got that blue wing up in Walla Walla And his cellmate there was Little Willy John And Willy he was once a great blues singer And Wing and Willy wrote ’em up a song. They said…
CHORUS: It’s dark in here; can’t see the sky But I look at this blue wing and 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.
They paroled Blue Wing in August, of 1963 He moved north picking apples to the town of Wenatchee Then winter finally caught him in a run down trailer park On the south side of Seattle where the days grow gray and dark
And he drank and he dreamt of visions when the salmon still ran free And his fathers’ fathers crossed that wild old Bering Sea And the land belonged to everyone and there were old songs yet to sing Now it’s narrowed down to a cheap hotel and a tattooed prison wing
CHORUS: It’s dark in here; can’t see the sky But I look at this blue wing and 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.
You ask me what’s a coyote fence? A crooked line of cedar poles Surrounding our adobe, our refuge from the road Some nights we can see light of fires as Indians dance And the eyes of God shine through the coyote fence.
— from “The Light Beyond the Coyote Fence” by Tom Russell
Tom Russell posted the following on Facebook and I felt a need to share it — a collaborative effort of three great singer-songwriters:
“Exciting news….we were walking through the old Greenwich Village this afternoon, vastly changed, and I thought – “it would be great to do an album release show at The Bitter End.” So we walked into The Bitter End, and out walks the owner. He warms up to us and I tell him I used to work there every Sunday…so we might hook the opening gig there for the next album release tour. Maybe a return to The Bitter End! Lets make Greenwich Village great again! This is Lucinda Williams and myself doing Bob Dylan‘s “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” off of the record “Mesabi.” All records and books: www.fronterarecords.com Your reporter for Nova Beat at the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal….”
Kenne & Joy In New Orleans (12/26/07) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Decatur Street, New Orleans (12/26/07) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“Folk Singer” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Photo-Artistry by kenne (Early 2000’s In The Woodlands, Texas))
“The Common Man” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
“Desert Scene” — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Western Bluebird — Image by kenne
Computer Painting by kenne
“On The Roads Outside Of San Diego” 
Becoming is Superior to Being 