Ghosts of Politics Past

With all the political hullabaloo dancing across the airwaves like sparks from a downed power line, I've been thinking a great deal about how the past affects who a person becomes. For every jump in popularity this political season, another skeleton emerges to wreak havoc on the career of a Presidential hopeful.

Bureaucrasong - A Political Sing Along

If you haven't noticed, we are in the thick of a mid-term election in these great United States of America. If you haven't noticed, you must be in a coma. I apologize.

I've recently become much more aware of my political environment, due to a number of professional connections in the last six months or so. As I become more interested in who is running things around this country, the more it drives me crazy. As a person who loves communication, discourse, and the free exchange of ideas, the vitriolic hate speech that spews out of the mouths of our representatives makes me want to forget about the whole thing. There is no communication, only shouting at one another until one side passes out from a stress induced heart attack. The funny thing is, both sides don't realize that they are trying to achieve the same thing. And then you add in another group of people who want to bring up alternative ideas to the dichotomy we've been forced to listen to for decades, and it becomes a legitimate three ring circus, with tales of moose hunting Alaskan governors, witches in Delaware, and senatorial candidates worshiping something called the Aqua Buddha. It's maddening. And we, the average Americans, are supposed to make sense of it all and cast an informed vote! Forget about it.

So I wrote a song about all the hornswaggling and buffoonery that's been taking place. I've tried to sift out the real issues in this song, so let me know what you think.

I'd like to remind all of my politically active friends out there that this is a satirical piece. If you can't laugh at yourself, get the Hell out of politics.


Bureaucrasong

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Every other year or so
The leaves they start changing and signs begin to grow
Boasting promises committing words
Slinging mud at the other side like its dog turds
 
Them signs look like burmashave, only it don't make no sense!

You've got the Republicans, they hate the tax
All the while they love to spend our hard earned greenback
Death penalty A-OK. gay marriage aint.
Smoking reefers outa line on thier end o' the debate
They're pro life. They love the babes
But they keep funding wars sending soldiers to their graves
 
That takes care of the reds. Now what about them folks on the other side of the aisle?

If you see a democrat, ask em for a dime
They love to spend our cash, so they'll give you one of mine
They're a bunch o' bleeding hearts, commie socialists
Marry anyone you want woman, man, or fish
Spend a million dollars just to save a tree
Them blue dogs can't remember that freedom isn't free

Them liberals...can't take a joke. Now any a you hearda these Tea party folk?

Theres a new group a folks out there, vying for my vote
Peddling their policies, shovin' em down your throat
Tea party is American, right down to there guns
Take away their freedom and boy you better run
Take the christian right, give 'em a little dope
Don't you dare a tax em, and sure don't mention hope
 
Yes we can. Three's a crowd in politics. Hell, two's a crowd in politics. bunch o' talkin heads.

Ask me who I'm voting for and I don't have a clue
They all say the same damn thing, and what do they really do?
Bitch about each other, piss on the other side
 
Maybe I'll move to Chicago, My vote'll count once I've died.

Happy Voting!

Pistols to Plowshares

I was listening to an excessive amount of William Elliot Whitmore a few weeks back. Whitmore always gets me feeling reminiscent for home and a more agrarian life in southeast Iowa. Now my childhood in Donnellson, Iowa was no where near a country life. Residing in a town of 946, resplendent with baseball fields, a city park, and a public pool, I was seen as a soft city kid. I didn't raise animals, save the cats and dogs we kept as pets. I didn't learn to operate heavy machinery until I was in high school. I didn't hunt, ride four wheelers, or drink Busch Light at the age of 14.

My home town

But compared to the students I met in college from Chicago and St. Louis, or the thespians and artists I work with in Davenport, I am as country as an ear of corn. The handful of years I spent on my grandparents farms has made me a certifiable agricultural specialist in the circles I run. That and a healthy dose of bull shit.

So I was driving home from work, listening to NPR (that's the city boy in me), when I heard a sponsorship PSA for an organization called Plowshares institute. The name is derived from a scripture in the book of Isaiah,

“They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore.”

As I mulled over the idea of Swords into Plowshares, I attempted to update the metaphor.

Plant the Piece

Bombs into plowshares

Guns into plowshares

Pistols into plowshares

That had a great ring to it. As I rolled the words around my brain, a story began to develop. A Jesse James style tale of misdeed and a fight for survival for a young country boy. A little dramatic, maybe, but perfectly in style with the over-the-top affectations of the early westerns by John Wayne, Gary Cooper, and Errol Flynn. From that story, this song arose. Here it is.

Pistols to Plowshares

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I was born in the dust bowl, in the fall of '21

Grew up corn and cattle, my old man, and his shot gun

Saw my pa gunned down in cold blood over debts we could not pay

I took everything that meant anything to my pa and I rode away

Trailed him home that night, on my dads horse with his shot gun

Buried two shots in that bankers back, and in the dead of night I run

15 year old fugitive, I gunned my way cross the midwest

Lookin for some answers, praying for some rest

Now I been running longer than I've been sitting down

looking over my shoulder, so I don't end up in the ground

And all I want is a plot of land, a place to lay my head

Turn these pistols into plowshares, find some peace before I'm dead

I met a girl in Iowa, on the day I turned 16.

Took her out a dancing, I sure did find her keen.

But some ol' rounder cut in on us, he'd seen my face and the word reward

Lit up that ol' dance floor, left my lover on the floor.

Now I been running longer than I've been sitting down

looking over my shoulder, so I don't end up in the ground

And all I want is a plot of land, a place to lay my head

Turn these pistols into plowshares, find some peace before I'm dead

My old man never taught me much before he left this earth

The value of a good mans word, what a hard days work is worth

The only thing he didn't teach is how its bigger to forgive

If he had I wouldn't be here now just struggling to live.

Now I been running longer than I've been sitting down

looking over my shoulder, so I don't end up in the ground

And all I want is a plot of land, a place to lay my head

Turn these pistols into plowshares, find some peace before I'm dead

As always, post any thoughts, comments, additions, etc.

Thanks for listening! See you next week.

Me and Henry Fonda

This song was born of an out-of-context comment, a few text messages, and the folk influences of Dylan, Guthrie, and Seeger.

The initial spark came during a rehearsal of a play, written by a local author. In the play is a devil character who, in the opening scene, is drinking tea and smoking a cigar. After a night of rehearsing, the director gave a note to the actor portraying Satan, referring to the cup as

“the devil's tea”.

As a lover of bourbon, this term immediately brings to mind the prohibitionist propaganda of the 20's and 30's in America. I can picture some matronly woman scolding her squirrely teenage sons as to the horrors of “the devil's tea”. Meanwhile Grandad's got a still on the hill, sippin' on white dog on the way to church on Sunday. This is a caricature of a time that was probably much more serious than I envision, but the Norman Rockwell painting in my mind is much more entertaining.

I mulled over this phrase. It just smacked of folksy artistry, but I couldn't come up with another line. That's when I called in the big guns. Brian Wilcoxon is an amazing singer songwriter friend of mine out in Indy. I texted him the line,

“Sippin' on the devils tea”.

He responded with,

“Me and Henry Fonda, sippin' on the devils tea”.

Henry Fonda, aside from being a great actor, has always held special significance to me, as he was one of Jimmy Stewart's best friends as they were emerging as young actors in New York, and remained close to Stewart throughout his life. As a great admirer of James M. Stewart's life and works, I loved this referrence. Henry Fonda, in my mind, is the symbol of stalwart friendship and companionship amidst hardship. I sat there a moment, rolling the cadence of this line around in my mouth like a taste of Kentucky bourbon. Then I replied,

“Me and Henry Fonda, sippin' on the devil's tea

riding in a box car all the way to Tennessee”,

paying homage to the preferred transportation of Guthrie and Seeger during their early years. From there, the rest of the folk form unfolded. I attempted to evoke the repetitive feel of a spiritual hymn, and even added in a little protest song at the end.

So here it is. As always, post any thoughts, comments, additions, etc.

Me and Henry Fonda
       

   
   
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Me and Henry Fonda, sippin' on the devils tea

riding in a box car all the way to Tennessee.

Ain't got no where to go

Ain't got no row to hoe

All I got is freedom, that's the only thing I need.

All I ever known is the shirt upon my back

All I ever known is the dirt so good and black

Don't need no roof above

To block out all of God's good love

All I needs the open sky to know just where I'm at.

Every time I get a dollar than the taxman takes it back

Every time I try to holler than the cop man gives me flack

Got to get away from it all

somewhere I can stand strong and tall

Got to find my freedom and fight to get it back.

Everyday and everynight the train runs down the line

Everytime I look, the clock keeps keepin' time

Gotta make the best of this place

Runnin' the big human race
Gonna ride these rails til I find what sure is mine.

If you have any ideas or comments, please post below. Feel free to offer suggestions on style, technique, recording methods, instrumentation, lyrics, or anything else. Again, the purpose of these entries is to spur dialogue that will improve the level of this piece.