So I’m making a record. Do people still say that?

I’m rounding up a few pals and going into the Rogue
next Monday, July 27 for a one day hot-off-the-floor
session just like Sonny Boy Williamson would do.
We’re working with Chris Banks on stand up bass
and Cleave Anderson on drums. Bob Wiseman
will be dropping in for a couple of tunes on piano
and Peter Hagele as well. And, Zoe Garnett might
lay down a vocal on the tune “Dark as a Dungeon”.

The repertoire for this set of songs is pretty heavy
on the folk, blue, roots and soul side…with a
heavy dollop of bluegrass. I have been into bluegrass
since the 70′s long before it was cool then uncool
and then cool again again.

The name of the record is “Little Maggie”. I’ll let
you know how it goes…

Back in the 80s, I came back from a European
backpacking tour, walked into the Kensington
market, saw a new café just about to open,
walked in, and introduced myself to Noel Paolo,
the owner.

I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it
was something to the effect that I would be
back on Thursday night to play, and I like
to start before 10 PM.

So, Thursday night I showed up and started
playing. It was about 9:45.

I played until after 4 AM, without a break, immediately
connected with a few of the locals, and I was off
and running. I met Bob Wiseman there my
second or third night. We became fast
friends. I met the wonderful Marlene Goldman
there and Glen Hornblast, and many others.

That was a good summer. It was fun to play
at a small café, but I kept on telling Noel, “No
cappuccino-making during the ballads”.  You
know how noisy those cappuccino makers
are. They sound like a bear with a serious
eustation tube problem.

He did it one time too many, and I walked out
in the middle of a song one night.

Noel chased me down Augusta street saying,
“I forgot! I’m sorry! Come back!”.

Somewhere around this time I played my first
gig at the Free Times Café. Scared the crap
out of me. It’s funny to think back on what seems
like the Big Time when you’re starting out.

Tom the young turk the summer of the Blue Calf Café

I’m thinking back even further  to my very first paid gig,
opening for Miss Penny Lang at the Yellow Door
in Montreal. I was upstairs tuning my guitar,
trying to calm my nerves when I heard a big gravelly
female voice say, “Hey Tom, come on over here and
get yourself a big mouthful of Vermouth!”.

Ah, a sweet welcome. I haven’t seen Penny for decades.
Can’t wait to remind her about the Vermouth.

So, the Free Times….I have played there a lot. I played
there with my pal Rick Maltese in the ‘Laura Hubert Trio’.

I played there with ‘Country Kitschin’. The Angels of
Montenegro played there at least once. I’ve guested
there a hundred times.

Feels like home to me, pace Mr. Randy Newman.

So come on down and see me at the
Free Times on Tuesday night. Sharing the bill
is Mardi Jayde with Gadi Foltys. Mardi is a wonderful
singer, writer, person who I love madly. She always
gets me to sing on her records. Gadi is a wicked guitarist,
producer and all around mensch.

Yes folks, Tuesday night I’m playing the big time…we will
start shortly after 8 PM, and well before 9 PM. I promise
if you come I’ll make sure you get a thrill and a surprise
or two, okay?

Thanks for Judy Perly for keeping a great live venue
alive for all these years.

VIDEO: Tom St. Louis Live @ Free Times Café

P.S. Near the end of my stint at the Blue Calf Café
(which got its name, of course, from an administrative
bungle at the business registry office), Noel told me
that he had explicitly decided NOT to feature music
at his new café. He wanted it to be the haunt for artists
and poets. Many musicians had approached him during
the pre-opening renovations. I was the only one who
simply introduced myself and TOLD him when I was
going to start.

To be honest, I had no sense of direction in my life at that time.
I was elated just having escaped the school system in one piece.
All I wanted to do was get on stage and sing and play my guitar.

Driving around the Southern states gave me many opportunities
to do that, and the receptions I received were generally
enthusiastic, and occasionally ecstatic. One afternoon in
particular, near Mobile Alabama, I got up in a crowded bar and
played a 45 minute set and received a standing ovation.

I played Ray Charles tunes (Hit the Road Jack and Georgia on My
Mind) and some requests…old folk and blues classics, an original
tune or two perhaps. Some cosmic coincidence inspired me to play
‘Time in a Bottle’ by Jim Croce, and the manager was over the
moon. He told me after my set that he had the lyrics framed in his
home and that he loved what I was doing and would I like to play
there. Pal Jimmy chimed in enthusiastically that we lived in a van
and for some crazy reason that put the kibosh on the gig in Mobile.

I soon found that, despite my musical aspirations constantly being
stoked by traveling in the land of Elvis and Louis Armstrong and all
the great blues men — and the inspiring fact that the world from
which they sprung was still there — palpable in the air all around
us — I was becoming despondent at my lack of progress.

Enter the Black Angel

It was March 1, 1981, a Sunday morning, two days before Mardi
Gras. As you may know, Mardi Gras — or Fat Tuesday — is the last
great hurrah before forty days of lent when good Catholics the
world over give up all the things they’ve been indulging in day
and night the rest of the year.

It was 7 AM and I was sitting in Jackson Square. The night before
I had sat in a bar and listened to the Al Davis band. Al was a
trumpeter, and had a sax player, a Polish chap, whom he
introduced repeatedly as “The World’s Greatest Saxophone Player”.
In the one set I saw he did two seven minute solos and while he
played nobody could doubt that he really was the greatest
saxophone player in the world.

But here I was the next day slouched over on a bench…looking
at my feet, feeling despondent. Where was I going? What was I
doing? Why wasn’t I making any progress in my ‘music career’?
Suddenly, I heard a soft voice behind me, saying, “Hey baby,
play me a little song on that guitar”.

It was a preposterous request, given that I was so obviously and
dramatically communicating to the world my unresourceful and
depressed state. And the voice gave no indication of anything
but positive expectancy. So I turned to tell its owner to bug off.
(Well, that’s a bit mild compared to what I was actually going
to say.) Didn’t he realize that I was feeling bad? That I was in
no mood for anything positive?

Then I saw the face of the man standing there at my shoulder.

He was open and smiling and kind. He was fairly old… probably
in his sixties, which seemed ancient to me at that age. And he
was black, with tight white curly hair. He had probably seen a
lot of hard traveling but nothing in his features betrayed any
signs of bitterness.

A voice inside me said, “Listen to this man. Whatever he tells you
to do, do … watch and learn” It was as though a master had been
sent my way to give me instruction in the art of street performing,
and something altogether more.

So, I pulled out my guitar and played “Born to Lose”, a Ray Charles
classic.

“Born to lose
I live my life in vain
Every dream has only brought me pain
All my life I’ve always
Been so blue
Born to lose and now I’m losing you”

I did it with as much gospel soul as I could muster on a damp
Sunday morning. I was afraid he might say, “Honky, you ain’t
got no soul!” But said. “Come on. We’re gonna make some money
today.”

The first place he took me was LaLa’s grocery on St. Ann Street.
The street was empty but Lala’s was open. He indicated a spot on
the sidewalk right out front, and said, “Play a song”. As incongruous
as it seemed, I followed what my birdie had told me before.

Shut up and do whatever he says!

That’s right, play a song to an empty street. Why not? And, which
song to play? I thought of Hank Williams and one of the two songs
I could think of with a Louisiana connection. So I chose Jambalaya.

“Jambalay, crawfish pie, filet gumbo
For tonight I’m a gonna to see my machez amio
Pick guitar, fill fruit jar and be gay-o
Son of a gun we’ll have big fun on the bayo”

Well, guess what? Very quickly a small crowd emerged from their
apartments above onto the balconies above the street, made
approving noises and threw down a couple of pocketfuls of
quarters. Suddenly we had a stake. With our first shot of winnings
we acquired two bottles of “wine” each…the kind of wine that comes
from a mickey bottle. One white and one red. I followed his lead in
this too. The white was called “White Port” and the red was
“MD 20/20”

If you’ve ever been to the deep South you’ll know I’m not making
this up.

So off we went into the outer edge of the French Quarter. We
quickly developed a routine with multiple variations. He would
single out a person or small group walking along the street and
greet them warmly extending his hand. If anyone took his hand,
we knew we had them. He would spontaneously issue a quick
whispered instruction to me based on his appraisal of the
situation. Depending on his reading of the person, the instruction
might be…”Play a song on the guitar”, or, “I’m gonna sing you a
song” or “I’m going to do a little dance”.

After a spirited performance…usually consisting of a verse and
chorus of a song, with or without harmonica or dancing, he would
fix our audient with a warm but firm smile, doff his hat in their
direction and say, “A little something for the kitty”—every time
with the exact same tone.

They would dutifully reach into their pocket and drop a few coins
into his hat whereupon he would thank them, and then in the next
moment he’d shift his gaze to their other pocket — you know the
one where the folding money lives – give them the saddest,
sorriest most hangdog expression you could imagine and say,
“I know you got more in there, I CAN SEE IT!!!”

This was a masterstroke of busking. I couldn’t believe his nerve,
and his dramatic flair, and I was amazed at how well it bumped a
person from a couple of quarters to a couple of dollars.

Our customer, still glowing from their personal mini concert and
the warm smile and connection they felt with my friend…would
reach into their “other” pocket and drop a bill or two into the hat.

So, off we went, deeper and deeper into the French Quarter,
stopping occasionally for refreshments, meeting more people
and picking up more “little somethings” along the way.

Before I relate the climax of our little tale, let me paint a picture
of the French Quarter at Mardi Gras. By this time, it is a non-stop
party. By early afternoon the crowds are teeming and surging…
and have a life of their own. There are constant parades and
pageants and distractions and literally hundreds of thousands
of thrill seekers out in force, in a very small area, making the
scene. To give you a feel for how thick the pedestrian traffic is,
let me relate two incidents.

I walked by a man on Canal street who was preaching the gospel
into an elecrified megaphone. In the course of two or three steps,
I heard something like, “And I say to you…that if you give your…”
and by then the sound of a boom box playing, “Celebration” by
Kool and the Gang (it topped the charts in February 1981)
completely washed away the loud sounds that were dominating
my ears just a second before. And a second or two after that it
was something else.

Okay, so now you know it’s noisy and crowded. Now let me
give you a sense of just how thickly concentrated the throng
was that day. By the time we were well into the Quarter,
moving required us to push sideways through the crowd.
I had my guitar pressed firmly against my body, doing my
best to minimize my width to facilitate squeezing between
the tightly packed people.

It would take perhaps thirty minutes to move one hundred
yards…if you can picture that you know it was very, very
crowded.

And here we were inching towards the middle of the French
Quarter. By now we were unable to stop anyone and sing for
them, and I wondered what he was doing, where he was taking
me and why. But I remembered the voice in my head, which
commanded me to simply follow him without question.

Finally we reached the middle of the intersection of Bourbon
and St. Peter…the epicentre of New Orleans. That’s where
Preservation Hall is…on one corner. And just over there is the
legendary Pat O’Brien’s…where the Hurricanes are so delicious
and potent, that few can drink three and walk without falling down.
Drinking four is simply out of the question.

So I’m standing there with my guitar squished up against me,
people all around, ten deep, one hundred deep, one thousand
deep in every direction. He looks at me and says, “Now”.

What could he possibly mean?

Just the fact that we’ve been busking in the French Quarter
during Mardi Gras seemed strange enough. Mary Mike, a
busker lady we’d befriended, had told me with firm authority
around Valentine’s Day that it was no use trying to busk during
Mardi Gras due to the noise and crowds. All the buskers knew
this and had retreated to other climes to return after the party
was over and done with for another year.

I thought back to the moment in front of Lala’s grocery earlier t
hat day. I had listened to him then and things had turned out so
much better than I could imagine.

So I pulled out my guitar…and let me tell you it wasn’t easy to
get it out of the case, which was squished beside me,
perpendicular to the ground. I managed to let it fall to the ground
and my friend, did I mention Thomas was his name?, managed to
convey to the people standing around that something noteworthy
was about to happen.

With my most plaintive and savage yell, I belted out the opening
lines of “Hey Now”, Ray Charles’ classic twelve bar blues.

“WEEEEEELLLLLLLL…did you ever wake up in the morning?
Just about the break of day…”

Now the people started moving apart, responding to the murmur
moving through the crowd.

“Reach over and rub the pillow
Where your baby used to lay…”

Now a circle was widening all around me and Thomas…he was
dancing and leaping like a flame and acknowledging the crowd…
every fibre of his beautiful being was saying “Look here…listen…
isn’t this amazing….”

“Hey now…hey now
It’ll make you feel so bad
That you lay right down and die”

Now someone reached into their pocket and threw a handful of
change into the circle which by now had firmed up…about fifteen
feet across. Very quickly others followed suit and the sound of
coins jangling on the cobblestones punctuated the turnaround
section leading into the second verse.. you know the “bump de
bump” guitar vamping between verses of a blues tune.

Okay, so I’ve taken you this far…now to the payoff pitch… or the
crystal moment. As I began the second verse..

“Then you put on a cry
Like you never cried before
You’ll even cry so loud
You’ll give the blues to your neighbour next door…”

…somewhere within that second verse, the people in the balconies
all around (and there were rows of balconies going up two and
three stories and around the corners of the buildings) got into the
spirit and threw their fistfuls of coins which created an even louder
jingle as they bounced off the cobblestones. As I entered the second
chorus…

“Hey now..hey now
You’ll get the blues so bad
That you wanna lay right down and die”

… I looked up and the crowd was buzzing and people on the
balconies had hurled their coins which were bouncing cheerfully
off the street and nobody was touching our money..they were
kicking the rolling and bouncing coins back into the centre of the
circle and the air was full of money falling down….coins and
crumpled bills turning in the light in slow motion…

That was one of the most amazing and unforgettable sights I’ve
ever seen…

And then the song ended – to applause — and Thomas and I
scooped up the money into my guitar case and went and sat
down somewhere and enjoyed a drink and a laugh. He asked
me to find him the next day but I never saw him again. Pretty
soon I was on the road for Vancouver where I ended up getting
a gig as a Leprechaun, but you know all that if you’ve been
following these ramblings.

I was there at the behest of a lovely woman from Toronto by the
name of Beth who introduced me to her friend, the late Robert
Crisp.

Crisp was a famous writer and a former world record holder in
cricket. Apparently, he had written one of the best books
about the history of tank war in North Africa during WWII.

He had escorted Beth when she was fifteen all around Crete
on a donkey and she assured me he had been a perfect
gentleman. And that he had been gobsmacked in love with
her. Is that a romantic image or is it just me?

I met her through the late George Prokos, a friend, violinist
and PR expert.  Oh, and one more thing. Apparently, Robert
was the ‘Carey’ character in a Joni Mitchell song. You know
the one… “Oh, you’re a mean old daddy but I like you”. I always
thought that song had a faint taint of S and M, but hey.

Okay, enough of the digressions…some taut and propulsive
sentences already or you will lose your reader he said to
himself.

Getting to the house was a bit of an adventure. I arrived in
Stoupa in the morning and asked around. Gosh…everyone
was so friendly and helpful! The problem was that they either
didn’t understand my weak Greek, or were simply making
up directions so as not to be discourteous to their visitor
in town.

I said something along the lines of, “Poo eenay toe speetee
tou Robert Crisp?“

And they would point vaguely in a direction and send
me on my way. After many false starts I found a Greek god,
appropriately named Dionysos, whose English wife was
very beautiful as were their children. They took me over
to the house, chatted about Robert and, told me I was
expected but that he was out of town and would return
soon. They gave me a key and said that I should make
myself at home.

What a wonderful little place. I can’t tell you what it will
do for your soul to spend some time on the Peloponnese.
Heck, just look at me. Do you think I got like this..so like
cultured like and suave-like just by standing around the
Dufferin Mall? Heck no…it took this little thing called…

…enculturation…okay?

Yup, and that’s what I got in Stoupa at Robert Crisp’s
house. I got enculturated, so deal with it. Particularly
when I lounged in the backyard by the lemon tree.
Oh yeah…a real lemon tree.

One day after frolicking in the ocean for a leisurely hour
and eating the best melon — peponi — of my life, I sat in
the back yard and gurgled with bliss….

I simply could not believe how beautiful life could be.

I walked into the house for something and took a
look at his book shelf. Like any self respecting Englishmen,
he had some fine leather bound editions including a real
beaut…a collection of Hans Christian Andersen stories.
He’s the Danish dude who could make a busted up little tin
soldier seem like the most doughty warrior in all of
Christendom.

I opened the book and one of the titles smacked me
in my wee brainie. It was called ‘What the Moon Saw’.

As you know, if you’ve slogged through any number of
these self indulgent paeans to my own titanic conceit,
I consider songcatching to be the name of the game..

…not the scritchy scratchy method guitarists often use
or the plinkity plonk method favoured by piano players.
(Or occasionally plonkity plink). Yes, of course you can write
songs that way, but inspiration is best. Don’t touch an
instrument until you have command of the melody he
says repeatedly to no one listening.

So here I go again. I did not write this song. I caught it.
I just heard it. It leapt up from the book and smacked me
one and it wouldn’t stop. It’s a simple rock ballad in C
minor in 4/4 time. What else can I tell you?
I walked around for many days hearing only this tune.
It was the soundtrack to the rising moon.

In Greece there’s a wonderful crescendo with every
full moon. The sea fully participates and all those
fanciful poetic notions of “moonlight” become very
real. In the middle of the night in the Mediterranean,
the moonlight is strong and mysterious and grabs
hold of your imagination and emotions and won’t let
go until you scuttle like a crab into the rough sea
after midnight.

It gave me the chance to ruminate on my feelings about
the moon. I decided the moon loves the sun but has
a lot of repressed feelings of resentment.

Here it is…What the Moon Saw. It has nothing whatever
to do with the Hans Christian Andersen story. It’s just what
the title evoked in my braincase, suffused as it was at that
moment with all the best secretions from my inner
pharmacopia.

I hope it haunts you. I hope it embeds itself into your
brain and crawls like a worm for decades. I hope one
day while you are looking at ragged waves crashing
a moonlit beach it repeats on you and unnerves you
slightly.

Regarding movies??? Hmmm…there’s a feeling of
magnificent obsession here…maybe it can be used
in a movie having to do with a mission.

About the recording: This was recorded at the Rogue
Studios with James Paul in Toronto. On piano and
keyboards, I was lucky to get the late Richard Bell.

I think Richard’s greatest claim to fame was being
in Janis Joplin’s Full Tilt Boogie Band. He also played
in ‘The Band’ post Richard Manual.

He did a heck of a job on the B3 I think you’ll agree. I
have to get back in the studio and complete it. It’s a first
pass vocal, but hey, we’re all friends here.

What the Moon Saw

What The Moon Saw
© Tom St. Louis

Now it’s almost light and the sun is coming back
In a little while you’ll see me disappear
In a little while you’ll forget about these beams
But I’m here

I was looking down and I chanced to see a singer
Pouring out her heart to a boy she used to know
But he left her world and the earth before his time
Let him go.

I was glancing to my left
And I spied a bright young man
Pouring out his love to the girl who wasn’t there
She was counting dreams of all the hearts she’d snared
So fair

When you find someone to love
Do you look up to my face?
And in your lover’s eyes
Do you feel a special glow?
But you’re not alone with the secrets of your heart
You know.

I saw the swelling sea,
She was drinking in my beams
Down to her depths to shine them back at me
On every ocean wave as far as I can see
It’s me.

I saw the sun, he gave me everything
Left me alone to reflect upon his light
So many gifts but the greatest one of all
The night

Then I turned and dropped my beam
On a barren mountaintop
Where a little boy dreamed that he could fly
He saw the eagle’s dance and he thought
that he might like
to die

Now it’s almost dark
And the sun is coming back
As I move along into your little piece of sky
Don’t believe the sun is just a local star
It’s a lie

The First Virgin

The Second Virgin

And I remixed it and had is mastered. And nothing ever happened.
Tell me which virgin you like?

Have I told you how I once walked the Peloponnese to raise
money for a Canadian charity called Sleeping Children Around
the World? I was looking for a feat of daring and endurance to take
on before a big change I was about to undertake… called marriage.

That was in August 1993.

I had been inspired by Murray Dryden. It just so happens he is the
father of two NHL goalies, the more famous of which is Ken Dryden.
Murray was an angel and a hero who dedicated his retirement to
getting many thousands of third world children into their first bed.

So I got a bunch of people to sponsor me. All I had to do was walk
the length of the Peloponnese, from Patra to Githio, which is about
183 miles according to Google Maps. It took me twelve days of no
less than 12 hours walking, so I suspect it’s actually a bit farther.
On the grand scale of things a minor accomplishment, but for me a
great adventure…and dare I say challenging.

During the first few days, my poor shoe selection resulted in my
feet being covered in blisters and moleskins, and my ankles and
knees and hips flaring up to the point of agony. It was absolutely
ridiculous. I got out of bed on the sixth morning and could hardly
walk. Never mind the pain…how was I going to make 23 miles
today? How would I be able to get my carcase moving at a
sufficient speed to cover the distance even if I put in fourteen
hours?

I got to thinking a lot about desire and determination and quitting
and not quitting. I never seriously considered quitting, but I did
wonder what would happen if I just stopped walking. The heat
was intense, well into the 90s, but dry. The sun was punishing.
I had a bandana and straw hat protecting my head, and around
1 PM every day I would be covered in heat rash.

There were a few thoughts that made it easy to keep going:

1. I  thought of Caesar’s legions marching over the Alps in
winter carrying 50 lbs on their backs
2. I thought of all the kids who would be getting their
bedkits if I could just finish my mission
3. I kept thinking the ridiculously simple but compelling
thought…”just keep putting one foot in front of the other and you’ll
get there”. I could find no flaw in this logical dictum.
4. I chanted the Buddhist chant: Nam-yo-ho-rang-gyay-kyo
for hours. I didn’t know what it meant but it was pleasingly distracting.

This year I’m promoting a song to help Sleeping Children Around the
World. They are closing in on their millionth bedkit, and I want to put
my shoulder to the wheel. I’m not selling the song. You can listen to
it absolutely free. But I’m asking you, if you are so inspired to buy a
bedkit for a kid who needs it. It costs $35 Canadian and every dollar
and every penny goes into the bedkits. Sleeping Children Around
the World is volunteer run, and so 100% of donations goes directly
to the recipients. You will receive a photo of the actual child who is
being helped by you along with your donor number, so you know
they’re not monkeying around.

Volunteers pay their own expenses. Donate to Sleeping Children
Around the World here.
http://www.scaw.org/about/help.html

Please send me a screenshot indicating that you have made a
donation. This will help me to promote the song through Ariel
Publicity http://www.bandletter.com/arielpublicity/

About the song. It’s called ‘Christmas Morning’. I wrote it in 1994.
George Milbrandt, proprietor of ¿C’est What?, a Toronto bar asked
me and a few songwriters to write a new song and present it on a
Friday night.

I was looking for an original variant to the usual joy and bright
lights themes and so asked myself if I had any experiences that
I would like to sing about in a song. I thought of those times when
we were small and hoped for a happy Christmas, and in fact we
just wanted a happy family and we hoped Christmas could be the
happy family transmission device.

Newsflash: A lot of kids don’t come from happy families!

So, the song starts out with a memory of an unhappy boy who longs
for a happy Christmas and the family to go with it. Next verse he
remembers an idyllic Christmas he once spent as a teenager with a
beloved cousin. They didn’t exchange gifts or get into any of the hype.
It is remembered as the best Christmas ever, including dancing barefoot
in the snow — all true!

Finally, he sings with trembling excitement of his hopes for
Christmas with his own young child. It ends on that happy note.

So, hear the song here.
Christmas Morning

Donate to Sleeping Children Around the
World here.
http://www.scaw.org/about/help.html

And please send me proof that you have donated.

Merry Christmas.

I will talk to you again early in the New Year.

Tom St. Louis

Then there was Bessie Smith with ‘Kitchen Man‘. I used to be
in a group called “Country Kitschin’“. Mostly it was Suzanne
Barker, now Suzanne Schofield and me, and sometimes
Cleave Anderson and others. Victor Bateman was in the
band for a nanosecond.

Well, Suzanne did a very enthusiastic ‘Kitchen Man’.

A few highlights:

“His jelly roll is nice and hot
never fails to hit the spot
[As if Mr. G really discovered the G spot. Hah!]
I can’t do without my kitchen man

His frankfurters are oh so sweet
How I love his sausage meat.
I can’t do without my kitchen man

When I eat his doughnuts
all I leave is the hole
any time he wants to
he can use my sugar bowl”

And on and on. So, in ‘Good in Bed’, a Tom St. Louis original, our
protagoness can’t get enough of this ugly, dumb guy with a Mom
tattoo and a front tooth missing. She can attract hot guys and rich
guys, but they just don’t do it for her like this bum.

Have you ever known a beautiful and intelligent woman who
simply could not shake the spell of a guy who looked like he
was one step from the jailhouse or the nuthouse?

Oh yeah, and her friends would implore her, “Why do you
continue to see this bum? He’s not good enough for you!” But did
she ever come right out and say, “But he is good in bed!”?

So, anybody making a movie needing some old sounding sexy
songs??? Here it is. Come a runnin’. Is your movie about a crazy
woman who just can’t shake a no good man? Does your movie
feature a scene set in the past and need a saucy little tune to set the
scene?

Well here it is…let the bells ring and the banners fly!

Sidebar: One of my great disappointments in life was not being
asked to do the music for ‘The Colour Purple‘. Yeah, I know. I
really do know.

Quincy Jones is the shit. What am I crazy?

I got it. Who the heck do I think I am. (See yesterday’s post.
I’m a genius and you’re not).

But when I listened, I did not hear the instruments that
they would have been playing at that time — period instruments.
And I did not hear the vocabulary, phrasing and musical vernacular
of that time either. It kind of bugged me because I went to bed with
that music for years. I would have gone for an entirely authentic
sound and I think the movie would have been much better for it.

Hey, Quincy could have done the recording and mixing. I would not
quibble. But you’ll notice that nobody can resist cleaning up and
revising and updating music which is supposed to represent a
previous time. What’s up with that?

This here tune — ‘Good in Bed‘ — should be played on a gut
bucket guitar, with an out of tune piano and a couple of busted up
horns. To our credit, the ‘Angels of Montenegro‘ managed to put
out a pretty cool little big band sound, considering that we had a
cello and a French Horn and a trumpet…along with the chugging
guitar. Catch the end of the song…the horn sting, and then the
cello bit, which was supposed to represent infinity…expressed
mathematically as dot dot dot …

One person I’ve often imagined singing this song is Laura Hubert
who once sang with the Leslie Spit Treeo. Now she sings blues
and jazz every Monday at Grossmans. I should probably drop
in one night with a CD. Last time I was there, she belted ‘em
out before an adoring, mesmerized crowd, almost all men.

I felt like an interloper.

So, here it is… a paean to every woman who ever met a guy
who wasn’t worthy to touch her bootlaces but was so good
in bed that she could never get enough. You know women
never marry those guys, don’t you?

Good in Bed

I just wanted to let you know that I am a genius. It’s a heavy
responsibility that few among us have to bear. But you wouldn’t
know that, would you?, You probably think it’s just wonderful to be
a genius.  But you don’t know the burden that destiny has placed
upon me.

How do I know I’m a genius?

Well, Peter Gzowski said so, that’s how. And Peter Gzowski
is smarter than you — blaaaaatttttt. (Insert raspberry sound).
Actually, he sort of accused me of it, and I demurred
semi-convincingly while softly guffawing and twirling my dimples.

But why do people keep saying that about me? Are they
trying to centre me out? Make me feel uncomfortable?

I think it’s because deep inside they know that I am cute as a
kitten and very sparky. I always say that you learn more about
people from what they say about other people, so let me tell you
about people who accuse others of being a genius. Having been
accused many times, in fact as recently as Saturday, I’ve had time
to reflect on the phenomenon.

In a way it’s a compliment, no doubt about it. But there’s also
a bit of puffedupness that rides along. It’s enough to say
of Bob Dylan, for instance, that he’s influential, prolific,
successful, admired, etc. But when you say, “Dylan is a genius”,
what are you doing but commenting on your own outstanding
and under-recognized perspicacity?

Okay, so all that aside, I was invited to meet the late great Peter
Gzowski on Morningside one morning years ago. Morningside
was the flagship current affairs show that ran nationally on the
Canadian Broadcasting Corporation radio network. And Gzowski
was the beloved star, the voice and heart of the Corporation.

He had the reputation of being a great interviewer. It was only a few
months after being interviewed by him that I realized just how good
he really was.

I had been involved in a series of weekly concerts, featuring
orchestral instruments arranged by me. I worked frantically,
with the help of Darcy McFadyen, my scribe and whipping
boy. We sat up many nights all night, me singing out oboe parts
and bassoon parts and him writing them down.

One time Darcy said we need a new woodwind song. And I
said, “Oh, okay, how about…” and started without hesitation to
sing something that became a song or should I say “a piece”.

It was a period of forced hyper creativity, in other words.

In fact, after the first rehearsal, of a string section, the musicians,
all unpaid students of course — were fussing over the charts.
Apparently, I had done some things incorrectly, never having
learned to read or write music. And of course, any errors
in Beethoven’s charts (he was another genius, I’m told) had
been identified and dealt with centuries before.

What do I know from a chart? I did my best to put the jots and
tittles and squiggles and blots in the right places. Problem
was that these dudes were spoiled. I had to get Darcy to
beg them to come and play with us in the first place.

(In fact I got Darcy to call every prospective musician and repeat
the same script, one I picked up from Robbie Robertson by way
of Ronnie Hawkins in ‘The Last Waltz’. Yup, it didn’t matter if it
was a boy or girl, he had to say, “The money’s shit, but you’ll get
more pussy than Frank Sinatra”.

And, in fact, Darcy looked to me to be his mentor at the time,
so he took my suggestions seriously.

I’ll never forget the moment he called Heidi the Milkmaid. Heidi was
a busty and enthusiastic oboe player who could milk a melody for all
it was worth. As he connected to her from my kitchen phone, when it
was time to deliver the line, he looked up for my approval and
insistence. I gave him the head nod and he delivered.

I had told him that this script had a magical, counter intuitive,
archetypal and hypnotic effect on people. Even if their conscious
minds were confused or repulsed, THEY WILL COMPLY!!!!

And so he told Heidi that she’d get more pussy than Frank
Sinatra, and I suppose she shook her head once or twice and said,
“Okay, I’ll play in your concert”.)

Digressions, gotta love ‘em. So we created six concerts.
The first was string night. The idea was to create a set
of original music on strings for presentation. And then to
have the string section play with the Angels of Montenegro
(my group) for a second set.

The following week would be the same format for a brass
section, the third week woodwinds, etc. etc. until the grand
finale on the final Friday when we’d have 32 musicians on stage.

I was doing my best to get some publicity for the concert
series and Morningside expressed interest but said, can
you come on the show after the concert series is all over?

Oh, okay I said.

Our interview started pleasantly enough. He had heard
a couple of songs, which we discussed and then we
listened to snippets from the concert series.

After hearing a string bit…a little Mozarty air I wrote, and
a big band-ish tune and a gospel tune and a woodwind
air, he made “The Accusation” of my geniosity.
And, as I said, I demurred semi-convincingly. “Aw shucks
I WISH I really was a genius” or some such.

My pal Chris Warren — TRULY a genius — said he was
listening on his Walkman at the time, outside the side door
of the hospital where he was then terminally trapped in a steno
pool. And he said he felt really jealous at the accusation.

I’m jealous beyond words at some of his songs and his
Nashville guitar, but it was sweet of him to say so.

So, the interview ended, and I discovered how influential
Morningside was among the coffee house set, artists,
loafers, pinkos and alternative lifestyle people. They
came up to me for at least two years and congratulated
me on my Triumph.

It seemed to them that being on Morningside was not
just a media appearance, it was a sign of having arrived.
But I secretly suspect that it was the Accusation that
moved them to consider my status as having changed.

In the months that followed I was interviewed by other
journalists, and notwithstanding the conceit I was
nourishing that I was in the process of becoming a
Significant Artist, they really sucked.

And I sucked.

And so I turned on Morningside one morning to listen
to Mr. Gzowski interview a Saskatchewan Worm
Farmer or maybe it was a Nose Hair Tweezer Inventor.
He brought the same warm humanity, authentic curiosity
and fascination and peerless broadcasting instincts…

…and I was humbled.

To hear the interview click below.

Morningside with Peter Gzowski

I love cruel songs. Don’t you?

I like indifferent songs…where
the singers says, “I am self sufficient”.

But I LOVE cruel songs.

I wrote a blues song once, which I have not
yet blogged about. It’s subtitled ‘Bastard Blues’.

It’s the sad, or perhaps just fun story
of a guy seducing another guy’s girlfriend
and then immediately dumping her
right after the act.

What’s the matter with me — I love that!
Maybe it’s the ingrained perversity of
my personality. More likely it’s relief at
not having to hear another ‘My Baby Left
Me’ tune.

Blues can be boring — can we just admit
this?

Besides, we all have enough time and
opportunity out there in life to get our
asses kicked. It’s good to have a safe place
of unassailable strength. If life gives you
lemons, write “Lemon Tree”.

Or as my pal Chris Warren once did,
a girl named MaryLou dumped him and
so he wrote the song, “Oh Mary Lou
why did I refuse you?” (She went on
to become a famousish novelist.)

Songwriting, the great leveler!

In love, you can be the beloved or the lover.
When it ends, you can be the dumper or the
dumpee. Isn’t it better to be the dumper?

A girl I used to go out with got so mad when I
one day suddenly said to her, “I see beyond this
deal. This is a Temporary Situation”. She
had wanted to play it as though there
was a “Long Term Possibility”, and my
comment enraged her. I didn’t think
I was busting up with her. I thought
I was informing her of my perspective.

She was mad! Not so much because
I was ending it but that she’d missed the
chance to do it herself, because she was
unsure too! Oh boo hoo!

I tried hard not to smirk as she bashed
things around the apartment, and then
cried, crying, “I’m NOT crying!”

This leads me to the current song we are
standing at the brink of the exploration of, he said,
enraging English teachers everywhere. This is a
cruel and heartless little ditty, called “Break
Your Heart”. It’s all about a guy who is
dumping a chick Just Because.

“Better you than me” is the basic gist of the piece.

This is another song with no standard
accompaniment, just Davie Gould on bongo.
It would be straightforward enough on guitar
or piano. I would rather three or four voices,
but you’ll get a good idea from the little
clip below.

Break Your Heart

What kind of movie I hear you asking? Probably
a comedy, a romantic comedy. All you romantic
comedy writers and directors sitting up and
listening closely?

Here is your song.

The song was written, erm
a few years ago. I was in
a profound spell of agonizing
about my life.

Just to inject a bit of perspective,
Plutarch reports that Gaius
Julius Caesar, at age 21 was caught
crying by friends.

When asked what the deal was,
he blurted out that Alexander by
age twenty-one had conquered
most of the known world. And
Caesar, by comparison had
done so little…besides
defying Sulla, rounding up a
bunch of pirates off the coast of
Pharmacussa and having them
crucified, winning the oak crown
for bravery in battle which would
require all Senators at any public
even for the rest of his life to stand
and applaud him — and a few
other little dismissible bits
like being named Flamen
Dialis, a Priest of the Roman
religion at age fifteen.

But there was I, a young turk
living in a permanent state
of aggrieved befuddlement,
occasionally getting out there
and producing musical events
and much of the rest of the
time bloviating about spirituality
in cafés to the amusement of
nubile girls or obsessively
debating philosophy with
friends in eighteen page letters.

It is admittedly laughable, but
don’t we all have those moments
when we lose all sense of decorum,
self-respect, self-restraint, taste…
and we bleat, “I have nothing!”
“I am nothing!”

Al Kooper said of this song, “This
is the self pityingest song I’ve ever
heard. And the line about your brother
Hughie…doesn’t that make him Hughie
St. Louis?”

Yeah, what of it?

My friend Chris Warren, occasionally
accused of being the finest lyricist
in Canada always liked the line:

“I met a girl.
She loved me like I dreamed
someday somebody would.”

And the follow up line.

“And I turned away. As if perhaps
the next one would be twice as good.”

All true!

This song was my “confessional moment”
when I admitted out loud that I didn’t know
which end is up. I was losing my illusions
and standing in the cold wind of destiny!

So dang poignant.

Anyway, no worries. I’ve had plenty of
time to assemble and concoct new
illusions, better illusions.

But would this song be good in a movie?

Heck yeah!

Even the guitar and drum outro
would be killer against the closing
credits of any film. Especially
one of those bleak, dark, I would
say dystopic but that word has
been beaten to death and needs
a good decade to recover its essence
which has been sucked out by dimwits
everywhere…

The ‘Fat City’ of our time needs
this song. Any coming of age
flick…and, of course, never
forget the ol’ stick the song
in somewhere just because.
If you need a song to stick
in there somewhere, I nominate
this one. It even has a clever
little pun in the title. Didja
catch it?

Those of us with advanced
writing and editing chops
(cough cough) know that
- 30 – in press release or
story indicates that it’s
all over. And that’s how
I felt at the time.

So, if you are sitting
there in your chair, fat and smug
and consuming media…send a
link to the true auteurs of your
acquaintance.

And Ghazal, happy birthday!

I thought you were 23.

This is the song 30 Now