Dearest Annabelle

Christmas music is in full force. On the radio, in department stores, and in my head. I have a confession to make.

I love Christmas music.

I know I may come across sometimes as a curmudgeon who hates all things beautiful - Top 40 Radio, Reality TV, Justin Bieber. And while I will rail against the commercialism of this season, I do love Christmas music.

So here is a Christmas song. No it's not your traditional fa la la la la, but it has some nods to a few of my favorite carols.

Football on Christmas, 1914

The impetus behind Dearest Annabelle came to me when I heard someone talking about the unofficial truce's that happened during World War I between the British and German soldiers on and around Christmas. The details vary by incident, but the gist is that the soldiers stopped fighting, exchanged gifts, sang carols, and in at least one case, played a pickup football game. This ability to step outside of themselves and find some human decency amidst such a horrific conflict is something from which we can all take some pointers.



Dearest Annabelle

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Oh my dearest Annabelle
with frozen fingers fingers and a heart that's true
I write to you.

How I wish for sunny days
when warmth above would cast its rays on you
all dressed in blue

Its Christmas eve tonight on the battlefield
My rifle I will rest, my pen I'll wield

Though so many men have died 
in brutal bloodshed from the other side
I live for you

Strip away this uniform
and I will stand here unadorned, the man
that you once knew
 
This Christmas night is shining, bright and blue
Star of wonder and might bring me home to you

Through the crispness of this 
bitter night we hear O Tannenbaum and Yule
ring clear and true

Candle clad and arm in arm
they march across the death fields bearing truce
a peace filled fruit

Stille nacht, Heilige nacht
Alles schlaft, Einsam wacht

As I pen these words
with frostbit hand I hear the Christmas bells ring through
the dawn is new

Close my eyes I'm taken back
to Sunday morning snowflakes landing on 
turn into dew

Peace on earth, good will towards man
Father son and ghost have mercy on this land

Stille nacht

Heilige nacht


Tell your friends! Tweet it, Facebook it, spread it around like the flu virus!

Put Your Patience in the Corner

In high school I bought an old fixer upper pickup truck at an auction. I have fond memories of the old beater, despite the fact that it sat defunct more often than it ran. When it did run, the heater worked in fits and starts, the acceleration was horrible, due in part to the fact that the carburetor was on it's last leg, and the radio was stuck on the same talk radio station.

Over the five years I had the old red Mazda, I replaced the entire fuel system, planed the head and replaced the head gasket, and finally removed the entire engine in an attempt to fix a damaged crankshaft. I learned a great deal about automotive repair over the course of that truck's life. I also lost my cool a number of times. One afternoon in particular, I was replacing the fuel tank in the old clunker which, on paper, should have been a fairly quick process. I was in my grandfather's tool shed, squirming around on the dirt floor while manhandling the 50 pound tank around struts, fuel lines, and electrical conduit. From the colorful language spewing out of my gritted teeth, an onlooker would have though I was wrestling a cougar underneath the bed of the truck. Reaching an impasse, I shimmied out from under the chassis, threw down my pliers, kicked the truck, and stormed towards the door. My grandfather, who'd been observing the entire display of frustration, stopped me with a wise hand,

My Patience out of the Corner

“Now Chris. Put your patience in the corner.”

I spun around, still in a pestilent fury. My emotions were still enraged at the obstinate vehicle, but my mind reeled as it tried to wrap itself around this bizarre phrase.

“What the hell does that mean, grandpa?!?”

As it turned out, the phrase was something my great grandfather, Lawrence, would say to grandpa when he was in a tempestuous fervor. When stopping and thinking about the incipience of the word, grandpa was as taken aback as I was.

“I don't know what it means, It's just something he always said to me. Put your patience in the corner.”

Whatever its history, the phrase served its purpose. It got me out of the emotional, illogical state I was in and got me back into that cerebral, analytical frame of mind in which I needed to be. I was still pissed at the truck, but at least now I could look at the problem objectively. I got back to work and soon had the tank installed.

The phrase has come back a number of times as I've worked on projects with my grandfather, though now it is as much a running joke as it is a true quip of wisdom. I still don't know where the term originated. Neither does the internet, or at least not Google. Whatever the reference, it is a phrase that will surely live with me, and probably be imparted onto my children in times of anxiety and vitriol.

I've long thought that the phrase would work well in a song, but I've never been sure of how to work it into the music. Then this came to me a few weeks ago. Call this song an homage to my Grandfather – Leonard Bernard Stephen Overberg - a man who's by all means fallible, but works hard and does his best with the life that's been given to him. One hell of a man.

Put your Patience in the Corner

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Lennie Stevens is a friend of mine

Imparts his wisdom over dandelion wine

Hands like tree roots and a farmers tan

Lennie works hard. Lennie is a hell of a man

Born in the heartland, Midwestern drive

Lennie's spent his whole life working to survive

He trades his dollars for tractors and grain

When I ask him why, he just smiles

then he explains

Wherever you're going, wherever you've been

You've always gotta try your best but your always gonna sin

So when you stumble, when you lose your cool

Put your patience in the corner and it'll see you through

Lennie Stevens is a God fearing soul

puts on his suit coat and he sits in the front row

Folds up his hands as he pleads with the sky

If you ask him why he prays this will be his reply

Wherever you're going, wherever you've been

You might get dealt a hell of a hand, that you just cant win

So when you hate the world, you don't know what to do

Put your patience in the corner and it'll see you through

Wherever you're going, wherever you've been

You've always gotta try your best but your always gonna sin

So when you stumble, when you lose your cool

Put your patience in the corner and it'll see you through

What do you think Put your patience in the corner means? Share your explanation, and maybe together we'll figure it out.

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.

On the Greyhound

Note: This is a weekly element of the MUSINGS where I share music I've been working on, as well as other original works or interpretations by musicians who submit things to me at chris.walljasper@gmail.com. 

The purpose of this segment is to get feedback from viewers on the work that is presented. Please offer respectful ideas and/or criticism, with the intention of improving the music presented. I hope you enjoy.

I was talking to my friend Brian earlier this summer, and he told me this story about two brothers who owned a grocery store in his hometown in central Illinois. It was a locally owned grocery, the type you don't see around much any more. The store wasn't a warehouse of pristine florescent light and overwhelming options. It was dimly lit, sparse, and dingy. Scores of students had worked in this little shop over the years, earning cash to be spent on a sultry Saturday night, put down towards a beat up old car, or tucked away for a college dream. They bagged, checked, swept, and stocked their way to a meager check at the end of each month.

The owners were well known in the community. Not necessarily well respected, but everyone knew the brothers. They were a little eccentric, but nothing that made people leery. They weren't the type of guys you'd see on the City Council, but neither were they considered low life's. The high school guys who worked at the store were privy to a stash of dirty magazines that one owner kept in the back room. It was rumored that one of the owners carried a gun while taking the deposit into the bank.

Then one day, the two brothers got into an argument. They began yelling in the store, stormed outside, where the altercation escalated to physical violence. Some say it was about money, but no one knows for sure. The only thing that is for certain is that at the end of the day, one brother lay dead in the parking lot, gunned down by his own flesh and blood. The rain fell intermittently as the investigators assessed the situation.

The day the incident happened, a friend of ours was on a bus in a near by town. The bus driver received a call and, upon hearing of the tragedy, pulled the vehicle over and began sobbing uncontrollably. The event literally brought this little town to a standstill.

This story has a sepia-toned, reminiscent imagery about it, at least for me. It feels like the small town in which I grew up, where everyone knows everyone's business, and news travels faster than the afternoon papers can report. The scandal, the horror, the foundation shaking magnitude of this event makes everyone question what they've known to be real in their own lives.

So out of that story, a song was born. Brian and I discussed how this story was so human. We could relate to it because we've all been at our wits end with someone close to us. But most of us don't take it to such a drastic level. We curse, we scream, we punch, but do we ever think of actually ending that persons existence? In this song, I attempted to convey the idea that this could have just as easily been any one of us. Who knows what any of us all capable of.

On the Greyhound

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Times are hard for everyman

To each his own doing the best that we can

As for me, I'm just traveling through

finding work and doing the best I can do

Middle America, late July

Hot enough to make the Devil cry

Greyhound bus grinds to a halt

Ain't going no further tonight on the old asphalt

Tensions rise in the July sun

when your 'gainst the wall there's nowhere to run

Behind the counter's more than tobacco and gin

Blood runs thick from your next of kin

Money turns a man's soul black

Jealousy cannot bring it back

One man dead, one man in chains

A family torn 'tween prison and the grave

Sometimes I think about those times

When everything was yours and mine

In the end there's no way to share

and now there is no one. There is no where.

Tensions rise in the July sun

when your 'gainst the wall there's nowhere to run

Behind the counter's more than tobacco and gin

Blood runs thick from your next of kin

On the greyhound no one knows your name

fade away everyone's the same

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.

It's October, so If you've been working on a piece of music that is morose, sinister, or downright scary, send it to me at chris.walljasper@gmail.com, along with the back story and lyrics and I'll post it. It doesn't have to be polished or well produced, just an original composition or interpretation. I'll be posting one song each week.