And Then He Woke Up
|
|
Happy All The Time
Ballad Of A Black Haired Man
On Any Old Sunday
And Then He Woke Up
The Death Of Victor Jara
Me And Uncle Joe
I Can't Believe (How Good
You've Been To Me)
The Last Train To Pontiac
Love For All Seasons
Out In The Country
I'll Walk In The Highlands
Keeper Of The Flame
Who Built The Bomb (That Blew
Oklahoma City Down)?
Timothy
© 1996 Rod MacDonald,
Blue Flute Music (ASCAP)
Rod MacDonald--lead vocals,
acoustic guitar, harmonicas
Greg Anderson--bass
Mark Dann--lead guitar,
synthesizer ("Timothy")
Lisa Gutkin--violin
Steve Holly--drums
|
Recorded at Mark Dann studio, New York City
Produced by Rod MacDonald, Mark Dann, and Greg Anderson
Cover photographs by Rod MacDonald, Nicole Hitz MacDonald, and Martin Gauthier
Graphic design by Dewy Engstrom
Thanks to Dewey Engstrom, Bari
Litschauer, Marty Gauthier, Lisa Klotz, Allen Aunapu,
Christina Leps, Marie Nofsinger, Sylvia and Barry MacDonald,
Tracy Sands, Jim Moran,
Pete Seeger, Primo Levi, Mike and
Esther Lieber, Jim and Val Hunter, Harold and Joan
MacDonald, and Nicole Hitz MacDonald.
Read
Sing Out!'s review
|
Lyrics
Happy All The Time
My girl told me she'd had enough
of all my songs about losing love.
She said "What are you afraid of, that you're gonna lose
your audience if you give up the blues?"
So I took out some paper, and I did what I do:
I wrote up a song, Ma, just for you.
Well, it's not very deep and it's not very long;
it's just to tell you, Ma, what's going on:
I didn't have time, I did 't have money
I didn't have love, and that ain't funny
then I found me a girl and a job with pay
I'm telllin' ya, Ma, everything's okay
I'm happy all the time
Now I never get sorrow, I never get blue
I don't even get lonesome and you know what's new
I ask no questions, I tell no lies
I'm telling ya, Ma, you'd be surprised
I'm happy all the time
Used to be a sad sack, whinin' and a-cryin'
I was sick of my life and afraid of dyin'
now I'm feeling so much better, just the other day
the woman I love said she just might stay
So tell all the ladies down at the club
your boy's all right, Ma, he's in love
she's pretty and clean, she loves me, too
she's smarter than me, and nothing like you, and
I'm happy all the time
Ballad Of A Black Haired Man
Black haired man, leanin' on a fence,
local people say "It don't make no sense,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down."
Sittin' and munchin' on a piece of grass,
watchin' them local folks walkin' past,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down.
Now the local fellow says "I shoulda knowed
we got a black haired man leanin' by the road,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down.
Hey, black haired man, by whose okay
are you just sittin' there munchin' that hay,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down?"
The black haired man says "You talkin' to me?
I work for the Department of Scenery,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down.
And every day when that sky gets clear
I get twenty-five dollars for sittin' right here,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down."
Now the local fellow says, "I do declare,
we got a smart one sittin' right over there,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down.
You know, smart ones have been known to disappear,
you don't see 'em leave but they ain't around here,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down."
The black haired man says "As for me,
I go where I like, I do as I please,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down.
And Mister, I got me a job to do,
if you don't mind I'd like to get back to
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down."
Now the local fellow says, :"Well, is that so,
I guess we're gonna have to just let you go,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down.
But I know that if I was you
I wouldn't be there when that sunset's through,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down."
And the black haired man, he whispers low
"Forgive those ones who just don't know
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down.
That sun is big and it's red and it's gone,
I believe it's time I'm movin' on,
sittin' and watchin' that evenin' sun go down."
On Any Old Sunday
She was sittin' in a restaurant one Sunday afternoon,
watchin' her older sister work the tables in the room.
She ordered up the special: seven courses and dessert,
sat there at the counter in her blouse and her skirt.
He was sittin' at a table on the edge of the crowd
with a group of people who were partyin' loud.
She looked over disapprovingly; alone, he caught her eye.
When he winked at her she looked away
and just let it go by.
Ain't it funny how your life can change.
In a moment's glance it's all re-arranged.
You find yourself singing (2d v: humming, 3rd V: living) a different tune,
on any old Sunday afternoon.
She polished off her soup and salad and her entree,too,
and went off to the ladies' room to tighten up her do.
When she got back her dessert had been mysteriously moved
to the chair at that table in the corner of the room.
At first she was offended, thought someone had done her dirt,
but the more she thought about it, the more she wanted that dessert:
a pile of whipped cream on top of green jello cubes.
She went over and sat down at that table across the room.
"Hello" said my father. "You look very nice today."
"Thank you," said my mother, and shyly looked away.
He said there quietly until she was through
eatin' every one of those green jello cubes.
And Then He Woke Up
It was a beautiful concert hall, every single seat was filled,
a hush went up as the lights went down.
At first the people, they all clapped, but soon they began to laugh
as he stood up there at the microphone.
At first he couldn't figure out what it was they were laughing about
til he realized he had no pants on.
In preparing to do his best, he'd forgotten to get dressed,
he was up there naked from the guitar down.
Then he woke up, the dream faded away.
The concert hall that night was just some neighborhood cafe
where he sang until his clothes were soaking wet.
Thirty people said it was his best concert yet.
Then he was back in his hometown, with all his old friends walking around,
when he realized he'd left his guitar somewhere.
He searched the old swimming hole, the old backyard the grammar school,
but he couldn't find that guitar anywhere.
Then he woke up in some cheap hotel room
underneath the moonlight overlooking the avenue.
His guitar was leaning on the wall to his right.
He couldn't sleep at all, so he played that thing all night:
There's a song for sinners and for saints
there's a song for baseball players who hit 'em where they ain't
there's a song for young lovers and old lovers too
there's a song for dreamers, and
here's one for you
There he was at a festival, big crowd, spotlights and all,
when he realized his guitar had no strings.
By the time he'd slapped that metal on, somebody'd broken the microphones.
The crowd all left before he could even sing.
The he woke up inside his lover's arms.
When she felt him shaking, she held him good and strong.
The festival that night was in some rundown bar,
but a man there in a hat said "Son, you're gonna be a star!"
The Death Of Victor Jara
In a gunboat outside Santiago the Americans received the news:
"Allende is dead", and the generals said
"We've made a successful coup."
In the stadium Victor Jara was recognized by a soldier in charge.
"Are you here to sing?" "Yes I am here to sing."
They took him under guard.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead
but the hands of the poet, I can't forget.
No, I can't forget.
With knives they cut off the fingers that were made to play the guitar.
Six thousand saw his hands bleeding raw.
"Sing now," the soldiers snarled.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead.
But the hands of the poet, they're bleeding yet.
They're bleeding yet.
With his bleeding hands he led them, six thousand united in song;
but the soldiers most fear a vision so clear.
They machine gunned every one of them down.
And the years will pass, and the memories fade
and the hands of the poet still forever wave.
Oh, the years will pass, Victor Jara's dead.
But the hands of the poet, they're waving yet.
They're waving yet.
Me And Uncle Joe
Me and Uncle Joe were sittin' around, watchin' t.v. and swattin' flies,
when Johhny walked in, sat down between us and looked me in the eye.
And he said "Y'know I came here yesterday with a question for Uncle Joe,
but he hasn't answered yet, and now I gotta go."
And Uncle Joe, he just sat there watching the game show on t.v.,
and Johnny said, "I don't know, what would you do if you was me?"
"Well, Johnny," I said, "I can't speak for Uncle Joe.
Maybe he didn't answer 'cause he just didn't know.
And as for me, I don't even know what you asked him yesterday,
so whatever Uncle Joe is thinking, I couldn't say."
And Johnny, he just sat there, his face all in a frown;
and Uncle Joe, he looked at me, and he nodded up and down.
Then Johnny said, "I usually dance around this time of year
for Uncle Joe and all the people on the reservation here.
But there's a man up in Idaho who says my name has got around
and I can make some money when the sundance comes to town.
But I don't know what Uncle Joe would say if I did that.
That's what I asked him yesterday, but he hasn't answered yet."
"Well, Johnny,." I said, "like I said, I can't speak for Uncle Joe.
But if it was up to me, I sure don't know.
In fact, it seems to me the only one who can answer this is you:
you're the one who's gotta live with whatever it is you do.
So I can't say, johnny, if you should stay or you should go,
and like I said, I can't speak for Uncle Joe."
Then Johnny he sat back and smacked his forehad with his palm;
and Uncle Joe, he looked at me, and he nodded up and down.
"That's it!" said Johnny, "That's what he was waiting for me to know!
It just goes to show you how very wise is Uncle Joe."
And he stood up and he shook my hand and he went out to the yard,
and he waved goodby to Uncle Joe with one foot in his car.
I had to leave a few days later for a job out on the coast,
and I never did see Uncle Joe again, that's what I regret the most.
As for Uncle Joe, he never said another word;
but then he never did speak English, that's what I always heard.
And I wonder 'bout that Johnny, did he ever get to Idaho?
I hope I see him sometime, I'd really like to know.
I Can't Believe (How Good You've Been To Me)
I can't believe how good you been to me.
I can't believe how good you been to me.
You rock me like a newborn baby,
roll me like the deep blue sea.
Bring me coffee in the morning, with my favorite wake up call.
Bring me coffee in the morning, with my favorite wake up call.
By the time I hit that sidewalk,
I feel about ten feet tall.
I hear her singing in the morning, I see her smiling late at night.
I hear her singing in the morning, I see her smiling late at night.
I love to drive that woman crazy,
I love to keep her satisfied.
When I got to earn my money, you know she understands,
long as I do my duty as her lovin' man.
I can't believe how good she been to me.
If that woman don't watch out, she ain't never goin' to get rid of me.
The Last Train To Pontiac
The last train to Pontiac pulled into the station,
switched off the lights, and cut the engines.
But no passengers came calling, no conductor counted tickets,
for the last train to Pontiac had been declared finished.
Somebody had decided they could save a few million
to pay for that big tax cut and that extra twelve billion
they budgeted for the Pentagon next year.
But isn't that what you wanted when you stood behind that curtain?
Isn't that what you wanted when you pulled on that lever?
Isn't that what you wanted? Well, then
you got exactly what you asked for, didn't you?
The last train to Pontiac sat rusting through the winter
while rich white men debated the future of welfare mothers.
And they said "If a few people starve, it's still worth the difference
if it gets the lazy mothers to get a job to feed their children."
Then they passed a big tax break for the corporate bondholders
and a new federal subsidy for the tobacco growers
and they gave away some prime wilderness to some well-connected developers
and they did away with the agency
that would have kept them from ripping off the public trust.
But isn't that what you wanted when you stood behind that curtain?
Isn't that what you wanted when you voted your conscience?
Isn't that what you wanted? Well, then
you got exactly what you asked for, didn't you?
The last train to Pontiac, the last train to Montreal,
the last train to Milwaukee, the last train through St. Albans
were quieted forever to pay for one superbomber,
or just to please some banker who never travels without his chauffer
or gives a dime when his tanker kills a billion birds and fishes.
he won't watch them close the station, he won't watch them shut the lights off;
he's too busy buying politicians, so they can afford the advertising
so they can afford to tell you how much they're doing for you.
But isn't that what you wanted when you stood behind that curtain?
Isn't that what you wanted when you pulled on that lever?
Isn't that what you wanted when you voted your conscience?
Isn't that what you wanted? Well, then
you got exactly what you asked for, didn't you?
Love For All Seasons
It's hard to find the words to say exactly what you see;
words just don't describe the feeling when you're close to me.
But if you want to understand, let me take you by the hand,
and I'll show you how's it goin' to be:
Love for all seasons
come rain or shine
love for all seasons
yours and mine
through the days to come,
the ups and downs
for all the good times, too
let me give to you my
love for all seasons.
Now wiser men than I have said love is just a game;
and others say that love is just a feeling you can't name.
But all those who philosophize never looked into your eyes
and knew that you felt the same
Love for all seasons....
(last chorus)
Through the years to come,
the ups and downs
and for all the good times, too
let me give to you my
love for all seasons.
Out In The Country
The street I grew up on was out in the country
between the mountain and the town.
We dug holes to China, played two-man baseball,
there were so few kids around.
In the summer I picked blackberries, put 'em on a table
out by the edge of the road.
Everyday I'd take those quarters left there in the basket,
I must've been eight years old.
We built us a stockade out in the backwoods,
we slept there on the summer nights.
We'd build us a campfire, take a portable radio,
listen to the ballgames and the fights.
In the morning we'd cook up bacon and eggs in a skillet,
eat 'em up and head for home,
spend the day out swimming down at Rocky Bottom,
I must've been twelve years old.
But I never knew, when I was a young man,
how much I would someday recall
the days of my life out in the country;
now I want to remember them all.
Then I got me a job moving peaches and apples,
I traded my bike in for a car.
School was just about finished, we'd go out with our girlfriends,
I'd always take my guitar.
We'd go to the drive-in, or maybe build us a campfire;
'round midnight we'd take those girls home.
Then we'd climb that mountain and stay up there all night,
I must've been eighteen years old.
One day I went back home to the house of my family,
to help them retire to the south.
There were new streets all around and an interstate highway
and too many houses to count.
I said "That's just the way of the world and it's progress,
the old ways can't forever hold."
And we loaded up that car and drove into the distance,
I must've been twenty-eight years old.
Now I see a young boy riding on a bicycle,
easing his own way on down the road;
his ear to a radio, basket full of newspapers,
you just can't imagine him old.
And I want to ask him "Have you seen my old girlfriend?"
and "Where do those blackberries grow?
Can you still see our house from the top of the mountain?"
Ah, but that was all so long ago.
I'll Walk In The Highlands
Whenever we measure life's greatest treasures,
the simplest of pleasures is often most high:
to hold and to cherish a love that won't perish,
and to walk in the highlands with you by my side.
Oh, well I remember the first of November;
the frost on the heather, I followed the tide.
West through the islands our ship sailed in silence,
and never the highlands again have I spied.
How many lifetimes I've wandered
since I took adventure my bride?
And how many good lives squandered
victory and justice denied?
At the end of my story, come fortune or glory,
or only to answer for blindness or pride,
if there's a heaven, one thing I believe in,
I'll walk in the highlands with you by my side.
Keeper Of The Flame
More people write songs than listen to them
doesn't mean you can't write a song.
More people sing than get paid for it
doesn't mean you can't sing along.
On every highway in every town
somebody's wise to the game:
give all the people a song and a dance
and be a keeper of the flame.
There's more ways to travel than you can choose;
it doesn't mean you can't go.
More miles to get there than you ever knew
doesn't mean you'll never know.
You must understand, no magic hand's
going to appoint you king of the deal.
The cards will be chance, the odds less than zero;
still you've got to play your hand for real.
There's more to the beat than the sound of the drum;
it doesn't mean you can't dance.
More to a man than where he comes from
doesn't mean you can't know where he stands.
Who Built The Bomb? (That Blew Oklahoma City Down)
Who built the bomb that blew Oklahoma City down?
"Not I," said the Washington lobbyist, checking the names off on his list.
"We give money to candidates who vote exactly like we tell them to:
to preserve all our basic rights to own a rifle with a scope sight
or an assault weapon to clear a street or a militia if we want to beat
down on anyone in our way until the revolution comes one day.
Okay, so one got out of line, you can't say the blame is mine."
Who bought the bomb that blew Oklahoma City down?
"Not I," said the leader of Congress, busily beating on his chest,
celebrating the victory of his political party.
He rode his white horse to Washington, set up his targets and mowed 'em down.
"The biggest need today," he said, "is eliminating the goverment.
Boom the environment, boom health care, it's a revolution, boom welfare.
As for some guy with a bomb on a bus, he's totally unimportant to us."
So who placed the bomb that blew Oklahoma City down?
"Not I," said the action movie star as he derailed 15 railroad cars,
rode his 'copter through the hotel and blew the bad guys straight to hell.
"I'm killin' villians all over the world, so be like me and you'll get the girl.
We don't pay extras on this film, so there's no bystanders to get killed.
As for the law it's just a drag, at the end of the movie I get back my badge.
With a quip and smile in every frame, you can't say I'm to blame."
So who set the bomb that blew Oklahoma City down?
"Not I," said the right wing radio host, "but then I can proudly boast
good people everywhere agree with me, there's a liberal conspiracy
that must be stopped immediately if we're gonna keep our country free
and sure I said the President and his wife are deviants
whose government has no authority and must be destroyed, but actually
I didn't mean it literally, I was just trying to get myself on TV."
So who lit the bomb that blew Oklahoma City down?
"Not I," said the preacher, book in hand, with his personal knowledge of God's great plan.
"God will punish those who do wrong and sometimes we need to help Him along.
It just shows how our morality has sunk to new lows with sex and free
speech and rock music and this generation, though in this case it was a right-wing Christian
gun nut, racist white man. I still say we need to make a stand
for God and Christ and this here station, so won't you please send a donation?"
So who denied the bomb that blew Oklahoma City down?
"Not I," said the people, eyes glued to the screen as they pulled the bodies out from the scene.
"Those Arabs shouldn have done what they done; what do you mean it was an American?
There's nothing I hate more than violence; I still say it would've made more sense
for them to go on Oprah for 'Guys who can't stop making war'
or to let our boys win in Vietnam or drop the big one on Iran;
but killin' Americans, it ain't the same. No, you can't say we're to blame."
So who built the bomb that blew Oklahoma City down?
Timothy
Timothy, the mirror maker, made a very special one for me.
Now I can see with no disguise, how I look in someone's eyes,
what it is exactly that they see.
It was there when you came to see me, though you said you couldn't stay very long.
I saw that I will never touch the woman that I love so much,
and, anyway, I'm no longer young.
In your eyes my fingernails were dirty,
my shirt is never going to be in style.
And If I live to be a hundred, you'd only look away
at the aging of my smile.
I put the mirror in the closet, locked the door and hid the key.
I knew that mirror wasn't lying, and you will never be all mine,
but it was something I didn't want to see.
Then one day I needed something,
I opened up that closet once again.
Just then a stranger came to visit;
that mirror shone all day from the light on my skin.
In her eyes my hands were gentle, but strong for the work they have done.
And the smile there on my lips tasted sweet to her kiss,
and I felt like I always will be young.
Who can say what the truth is?
The eyes will see what they want to see.
But I can't stay with you, love,
knowing there's someone there who sees the me I want to be.
Timothy, who makes the mirrors, has gone back to making normal ones again.
He says "No one really wants to know what makes their loved ones come and go."
In fact, it nearly did his business in.
Credits
Happy All The Time The Last Train To Pontiac
Ballad Of A Black Haired Man Love For All Seasons
On Any Old Sunday Out In The Country
And Then He Woke Up I'll Walk In The Highlands
The Death Of Victor Jara Keeper Of The Flame
Me And Uncle Joe Who Built The Bomb (That Blew Oklahoma City Down)?
I Can't Believe (How Good You've Been To Me) Timothy
All songs copyright 1996 Rod MacDonald, Blue Flute Music (ASCAP) sub-published by:
Rod MacDonald--lead vocals, acoustic guitar, harmonicas
Greg Anderson--bass
Mark Dann--lead guitar, synthesizer ("Timothy")
Lisa Gutkin--violin
Steve Holly--drums
Recorded at Mark Dann studio, New York City
Produced by Rod MacDonald, Mark Dann, and Greg Anderson
Cover photographs by Marty Gauthier and Rod MacDonald
Graphic design by Dewy Engstrom
Thanks to Ron and Bari Litschauer, Marty Gauthier, Lisa Klotz, Allan Aunapu, Christina Leps, Marie Nofsinger, Sylvia and Barry MacDonald, Tracy Sands, Jim Moran, Pete Seeger, Primo Levi, Mike and Esther Lieber, Jim and Val Hunter, Harold and Joan Macdonald, and Nicole Hitz.
For further information: Rod MacDonald, Box 2152, Delray Beach, FL 33447-2152
or e-mail Rodmacd@aol.com
Don't forget to include this symbol in blue:
*