Hard-to-Classify Songs (Weirdos)

I remember sitting at a faculty meeting once, a bunch of English teachers and I. Somebody was talking about meaningful literature and meaningful this and that. If I didn’t know my question would only make the meeting last longer, I’d have asked, “What is the meaning of ‘meaningful’?” I felt like asking that question, though, not to be snide–which I am, usually. But I really don’t know what it means.

And I really don’t know what this song means. I take full responsibility for it, but I’m not sure what that means either.

Naked Girl in Blue

Said the gypsy in my dreams, “Just don’t ask me what it means;
I see crimson to your right, to your left, a busted kite
And behind you stands a ghost, a little scarier than most
Round your head, and up above, fly the juggled plates of love

“You’ll travel, but you won’t get far
you’ll find you’re lost right where you are
and you’ll meet the naked girl in blue
the coyotes crying on the ridge
and the stranger on the narrow bridge, but
dream on, just dream on
they’re only dreaming you.”

Said the gypsy in my dreams, “Damned if I know what it means
You’re an interesting case, there’s a face behind your face
it’s a face that’s seen a ghost, a little scarier than most
blood red eyes, cold white sheet, only three toes on his feet

“He said he’ll meet you at the end
‘Just me and you, don’t bring a friend
you’ll only need a deck of cards’
And all the while you’ll want to hide
from the fingers waving just outside, but
dream on, just dream on,
they’re only dreaming you

“You’ll swear it all just feels too real but
at least you’ll know just how it feels
and you’ll raise the empty silver cup
But I don’t want to give the end away
let’s just say it’s enough to say,
‘dream on, just dream on
we’re only dreaming you'”

I was in college in the late ’60s. That explains a lot.

Burning

Just a bunch of drunken cowboys
silhouettes against the moon
yodeling like lone coyotes
shifting with the blowing dunes

Never knew where we were going
tearing around to get there anyway
couldn’t talk about tomorrow
wouldn’t speak of yesterday

We were burning
we were smoldering
we were children
yearning
And we were smoking
we were lightning
fighting
frightened

Spinning like a line of twisters
kicking up a sea of sand
talking with our fists and dancing
right hand, left hand, allemande
Drank from every silver river
shot up every posted sign
all your paper ain’t worth nothing
everything is yours and mine

We were burning
we were smoldering
we were children
yearning
And we were smoking
we were lightning
fighting
frightened

Just a bunch of drunken cowboys
couldn’t even draw the deuce of hearts
played the game like perfect strangers
always new around these parts

We were burning
we were smoldering
we were children
yearning
And we were smoking
we were lightning
fighting
frightened

The inspiration for this song might have come from my surroundings.  I was staying in an unheated motel room adjacent to the bar where I was performing in Fredericksburg, Va. 

I think this rendition was recorded at the Washington Folk Festival; I could tell for sure if I could bring myself to listen to it. 

The “instrument” you hear has many names–jaw harp, Jew’s harp, la guiambarde–, for good reason: Instruments identical to or like it sprung up, all on their own, on every continent. And you had hope for humanity? Did you know that, in Borneo, if you play one of these outside your sweetie’s hut, she’ll consider it a marriage proposal?  The folks in Borneo think we’re wackier than they are.  So do I.

Chicken in the Fridge

Chicken in the fridge
isn’t she a darlin’
when you’re just about starvin’
in the middle of the night?
You go trippin’ down the stairs
gropin’ just to find it
and you open up the door
and you’re blinded by the light

Hang on tight
you’ll be squintin’ for a minute
but if you bear and grin it
you’ll be sittin’ pretty good
when your eyes get adjustered
to the glow and the luster
of the ‘luminum fawl
all about that bird

Chicken in the fridge
this is what she sounds like
whatever something sounds like
that’s the way it is
Baby want a breast
papa want a thigh bone
little sis a-pickin’ on the
chicken in the fridge

When I was seventeen
I got me pretty lonely
for a one and a only
hell, you know how it is
She laughed at my money
but she called me honey
when I whispered to her softly
“I got chicken in the fridge”

Chicken in the fridge
this is what she sounds like
whatever something sounds like
that’s the way it is
Baby want a breast
papa want a thigh bone
little sis a-pickin’ on the
chicken in the fridge

I’m the kind of fella
I don’t like to go to meeting
I’d rather be eating
my chicken so fine
and they don’t even give you butter
when they serve the Lord’s supper
just a old sodee cracker
and a half a sip of wine

Chicken in the fridge
this is what she sounds like
whatever something sounds like
that’s the way it is
Baby want a breast
papa want a thigh bone
little sis a-pickin’ on the
chicken in the fridge

Come reckoning day
I don’t care what they say
I’m gonna stand before my hostess
at the tollin’ of the bell
I’ll say, “Hang on, Hannah,
you can hold your manna;
you ain’t got chicken?
I’ll try ’em down in hell”

Chicken in the fridge
this is what she sounds like
whatever something sounds like
that’s the way it is
Baby want a breast
papa want a thigh bone
little sis a-pickin’ on the
chicken in the fridge

I dreamed one night that I was singing at one of my usual gigs, a restaurant called Food for Thought, in DC. Nothing unusual about that. In my dream, Jonathan Eberhart, a good friend and musician, walked in. I said, “Hey, Jonathan, listen to this,” and I sang him a new song. Halfway through singing it, I realized I was writing it in my sleep; so I woke up and sang it into a little recorder I kept by my bed.

The story gets a little crazier. Greg Artzner and Teri Leonino, aka Magpie, frequently ended their concerts with this song. Jonathan attended one of their concerts, and after the show, he asked them specifically about it. Something about the song intrigued him, they said. Months later, Jonathan and I participated in a songwriting workshop at the DC Folk Festival. Onstage, he said he’d heard Magpie sing something of mine that he liked, and he asked me about it. I got to tell him, in front of a pretty big crowd, that he was there when I wrote it. His eyes bulged, and he replied by singing the opening bars from The Twilight Zone theme.

Good People

Good people, I will sing to you
this song came to me sleeping
it’s to thank you for the love you share
and the friendship that we’re keeping

I’ve tasted wine while all alone
and as one friend among others
but by far the cups we’ve overturned together,
they were sweeter

If it’s ever from me you must go
or your life you must surrender
do not have a thought that you’ll be lost
for it’s you I will remember

O, I am a poor and simple man
and my favorite dream of any
is that faster shall my spirit rise
with my hands and pockets empty

Good people, I will sing to you
this song came to me dreaming
it’s to thank you for the love you share
and the friendship that we’re keeping

A cranky little tune, no? I might have kept that ill-tempered note, around which the tune is centered, to irritate people; my friends might have tried getting even by insisting they liked it. If a couple of friends hadn’t used this tune as the processional in their wedding, I might never have decided what to call it. To this day, I don’t like the title at all; but not only can I not think of a better one, I can’t think of any other, good or bad. Sue Jones is playing viola and George Johnson, piano.

My good friend Mary Pat cautioned me never to apologize for a performance. OK, then. But surely, she’ll understand my impulse to break that rule here? So, I’ll just say what I used to say to my students: “There are laws against a teacher’s roughing up his students, but there aren’t any that say I can’t tell you I’m fantasizing about it right now.” That’s how they knew I loved them. So, I won’t apologize, but. . . .

I wrote the lyrics to this one day when it was too hot to go outside to play. I’d written the melody, if that’s not too generous a term, about thirty years ago, also under adverse weather conditions. So, the music and lyrics are, in their own way, perfect for each other.

The title comes from a debating skill that every woman in the South is taught in infancy. If you’ve never had Southern woman “make eyes” at you, you only think you know what it means to surrender.

The Way She Does Them Eyes

Got to get back home to Memphis, honey child
got to get back home to Memphis, been a while
I miss the way they talk down South
I miss the way they shut my mouth
got to get back home to Memphis, honey child

Got to get back home, my gumbo gettin’ cold
got to get back to my favorite jelly roll
I miss the way she does them eyes
when she got somethin’ on her mind
got to get back home to Memphis after a while

I been to Kalorama
I been to Kalamazoo
all that time big mama
a-hankerin’ for you

Got to get back home to Memphis, lawzy me
I see your ten and raise you ten and
I got every ten in Tennessee
I got my truck on cruise control
I got my ducktails on a roll
I got to get back home to Memphis, honey child