Saturday, October 27, 2012

The two-way man

Literature and music seem in the same family.

I had decided last week to go the musical route.

 Tom Pearson  The  MC at the Anti-poverty rally I'd sung at,  insisted that I was a writer first, and a musician second. Actually, he had been quite complimentary, announcing to all and sundry that I was an "iconic writer." Heh I kind of twigged onto the word iconic.
"Who me? Iconic writer? I'm just trying to be as interesting-- and even biblical!--  about characters in  John Prine. songs. In "cowboy" music, John Prine is my hero. His writing seems more like Ecclesiastes  than  the late and nasal drones of ole  Ernest Tubb.

It is amazine when a cowboy song reaches damn near symphonic proportions.
Yet, I didn't write that song, though I love to perform it.

It takes me at least 70,OOO words to even approach the greatness of John Prine.

There is an  apparent similarity between writing and music, though sometime I fear I do both badly.

The nice thing about actually perfoming live-- and not in cold print-- is that the applause is often immediate, if not surprising.

You're not going quite the way of the writer, who might have the attitude, "I'll read my stuff and bring the house down."

Well, not always.

Better to go with the almost psalm-like music of John Prine, especially his "Angel for Montgomery."

An old woman in his song is asking for a message, any message that will ease here old age and loneliness:

"Make me an angel
that flies from Montgomery
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing I can hold onto
To believe in this living
is a hard way to go.

For that woman in Prine's song it is endeed a hard way to go.

(Thank God I live in an apartment that contains seventy women and three batchelors, one of them apparently gay.)

Wonder if the gay guy is singing "Make me an angel."...To wrestle with?

There are different kinds of loneliness, I suppose.
But I'm partial to the loneliness of the old woman in the song,


How come John Prine can write a masterpiec in a few stanzas while I go on  and on the keyboard
in hopes of creating a masterpiece in 700 words.

Ah, words and music.

I'm starting to like both.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

The Last Waltz?

I've been playing and singing for anti-poverty rallies of late.These are unpaid and after all the energy laid out--hm, one is still poor. In fact you throw a lot of thunder into being a kind of John Prine after Elvis.
 This afternoon, I collapsed after a routine workout.
To borrow a titles from the great Robbie Roberson, this might be the last waltz.

Seventy-four and trying to be an Elvis manque'. And John Prine. Come on.

But then, holy mackerel, I seem to have groupies a little younger than than old Methuselah here.
Rock till you're dead?

 Again, like a wine-stoned cowboy. Women on the phone. But ah is only 75 y'ars old!

Second childhood.

"My momma she done said
She don't like that rock and roll

"I said please, momma please
Momma you just don't know

I don't want
...hang up my rock'n'roll shoes
'Cause me feet start movin'
Every time I hear those blues."

And yet the collapse at the gym.

My doctor was amused when I told him death is nature's way of slowing you down.

Ah what the hell.

One has always been a performance artist.

Maybe, to stay with the season, I might come out as Rob Zombie.

Tuesday, October 02, 2012

The itch for the new novel.

But the little apochrypha, Ecclesiastes keeps warning: "Of the writing of books there is no end."

But the itch is still there. It is a little like falling in love, oh, say it on, it is falling in love. You meet the person of whom you've dreamed all through your youth, and finally, in your dotage now, echoes of dead Buddy Holly.
True love will never die?

..."We're so doggone happy
just hangin' round together
Man, you want to sit and cry."

I am 74 and she is 62, but look 42. Kathie Lee clone.
I have had enough sex for about three young guys in as many lifetimes.
And yet I have found an idyll.
Watch her on a riverbank making a beautiful carricature of of herself.

This new love will surely die.

But damn, I hope the novel lives.

Double damn. It is bigger than both of us.