The Celestial Monochord

Cold Cold Ground

Tom Waits in a tree Stephen Foster not amused
Tom Waits (in a tree) and Stephen Foster (not amused)

A collection of thousands of recordings originally made on cylinders has just gone online. I’ve only just begun to explore the collection, but it seems like a gold mine.

For one thing, the audio quality is often surprisingly good. The medium is often casually called “wax cylinders” — at first they were only playable a dozen times or so before they wore out. But listening to this collection reminds me that the technology improved quickly — the wax was made harder and was then replaced with early plastics. The Wikipedia entry for cylinders is well worth the read.

Anyway, point is … the collection includes several versions of Stephen Foster’s plantation song (or coon song, or ethiopian song) “Massa’s in de Cold Cold Ground.” There’s an impressive 1916 banjo instrumental, a 1914 quartet that sings the lyrics, a 1912 military band that puts the song in a medley, and a 1903 version that’s in the collection but not online, apparently. [Editor’s Note: See comment below.]

When I first heard “Massa’s in de Cold Cold Ground” in December 2000, I immediately felt that a favorite Tom Waits song, “Cold Cold Ground,” was probably directly inspired by it — although, if that’s the case, Waits thoroughly re-imagined the old Foster version.

Musically, the two melodies both have a mournfulness and that “formal feeling” Emily Dickinson wrote about. There may be more specific musical similarities that I’m not bothering to shake out — their key, a chord progression, etc.

Lyrically, the two songs are clearly siblings. They share that almost morbid interest in nature that people sometimes have during a time of great loss (I think of Walt Whitman’s elegy to Abraham Lincoln). The two songs are also fully fixated on The Grave.

In a 1987 interview, Tom Waits said his song is “Just kind of a harkening back to earlier times; a romantic song thinking about home, and all that” — not a bad summary of Stephen Foster’s signature themes. Waits’ work has often reminded me of Stephen Foster, in that it seems rescued from some crumbling sheet music lost in an old piano bench somewhere.

I should mention that Waits ditched Foster’s racist condescension and the fake black dialect. But Waits is at least as maudlin and nostalgic … and is that a bad thing?

Massa’s in de Cold Cold Ground
(by Stephen Collins Foster)

Round de meadows am a ringing
De darkeys’ mournful song,
While de mockingbird am singing,
Happy as de day am long.
Where de ivy am a reeping
O’er de grassy mount,
Dere old massa am a sleeping
Sleeping in de cold, old ground.

chorus:
Down in de cornfield
Hear dat mournful sound:
All de darkeys am a weeping
Massa’s in de cold, cold ground.

When de autumn leaves were falling,
When de days were cold,
‘Twas hard to hear old massa calling,
Cause he was so weak and old.
Now de orange tree am blooming
On de sandy shore,
Now de summer days am coming,
Massa nebber calls no more.

Massa made de darkeys love him,
Cause he was so kind,
Now dey sadly weep above him,
Mourning cayse he leave dem behind.
I cannot work before tomorrow,
Cause de tear drop flow,
I try to drive away my sorrow
Pickin on the old banjo.

Cold Cold Ground
(by Tom Waits)

Crest fallen sidekick in an old cafe
Never slept with a dream before he had to go away
There’s a bell in the tower, Uncle Ray bought a round
Don’t worry ’bout the army in the cold cold ground

Cold cold ground
Cold cold ground
Cold cold ground

Now don’t be a cry baby when there’s wood in the shed
There’s a bird in the chimney and a stone in my bed
When the road’s washed out, we pass the bottle around
And wait in the arms of the cold cold ground

The cold cold ground
The cold cold ground
The cold cold ground

There’s a ribbon in the willow and a tire swing rope
And a briar patch of berries takin’ over the slope
The cat’ll sleep in the mailbox and we’ll never go to town
Till we bury every dream in the cold cold ground

In the cold cold ground
The cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground

Give me a Winchester rifle and a whole box of shells
Blow the roof off the goat barn, let it roll down the hill
The piano is firewood, Times Square is a dream
I find we’ll lay down together in the cold cold ground

The cold cold ground
The cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground

Call the cops on the Breedloves, bring a Bible and a rope
And a whole box of Rebel and a bar of soap
Make a pile of trunk tires and burn ’em all down
Bring a dollar with you, baby, in the cold cold ground

In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground

Take a weathervane rooster, throw rocks at his head
Stop talking to the neighbors until we all go dead
Beware of my temper and the dog that I’ve found
Break all the windows in the cold cold ground

In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground
In the cold cold ground

Yes, I Guess They Oughta Name a Drink After You

The Ebony Hillbillies, Manhattan.

What’s the difference between a fiddle and a violin?

Everyone who takes up either instrument soon gets tired of being asked the question. My favorite answer of those I’ve heard so far was from Rique, the fiddler for the New York oldtime stringband The Ebony Hillbillies. He was asked the question at the 2005 Black Banjo Gathering in Boone, NC.

“How it’s played,” Rique answered. “A fiddler keeps the bow on with the strings at all times, but a violinist lifts the bow off the strings — or bounces it off.” And with this, he bounced his bow against the strings of his fiddle, drumming out the first few notes of the William Tell Overture / Lone Ranger theme: badda-bum, badda-bum, badda-bum-bum-bum!

“Yes I Guess They Oughta Name a Drink After You” spotlights Dave Prine’s fiddling just as the previous song, The Frying Pan, did his banjo-playing — and his fiddling is a fine example of Rique’s lesson. After starting the recording with a quick little solo shuffle before the whole band jumps in, the rest of the song is Dave’s demonstration of lazy-sounding, long-bow, honky-tonk fiddling that never rests.

I wish I knew enough about country music to say whether this fiddling is more Hank Thompson than Bob Wills, or whomever. It won’t be long, though — I’m about to read a book by Bill C. Malone and get some reissues of some people like Ernest Tubb, Hank Williams, Lefty Frizzel, and so forth.

But the thing is … I’m writing NOW.

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According to David Fricke, John Prine says of “Yes, I Guess …”

I was going for a Hank Williams kind of song. Steve Goodman always told me that if I’d taken another couple of minutes and put a chorus to the song — there isn’t any, just a tag line to every verse — that it would have been a hit country song. And I was set in my ways. Once a song was done, it was done. But Steve was probably right; he usually was.

The song is another of Prine’s border-line parodies, this time of a honky-tonk jukebox record. From the point of view of the guitars, it’s a duet between John Prine and Steve Goodman — but with nothing of the delicate complexity we expect from them. Steve Burgh’s upright bass falls right on the beat, as do Prine and Goodman, strumming away, never striking any less than all twelve strings they have between them.

Being a honkytonk record, after all, the beat has to come down heavy, so you can feel it in a noisy jukejoint even if you can’t actually hear any music. This is the kind of country-western beat that might make you want to keep time by alternately jutting out and drawing in your chin. (Which reminds me … they say the origins of the term “honky” are unclear, but it must be a close relative of “honky tonk.”)

The lyrics, too, are so conventional for this kind of music that they’re funny. His woman drives him to drink. And that’s about it. But it’s always seemed odd to me — if nevertheless appropriate — that the relationship between the singer and his woman develops during the course of the song. It takes twists and turns:

Looks like I had my fill
Guess I better pay my bill
When I started out I only meant to have a few
Someone just said that you left town
I better get a double round
And yes, I guess they oughta name a drink after you

But how is this possible if she’s not at least there with him, sitting on the next bar stool? No doubt, his sitting alone in the bar getting ever more drunk is itself the development, the twist in the relationship, that happens during the course of the song.

(This is part of my song-by-song series on John Prine’s second album, Diamonds in the Rough: Everybody * The Torch Singer * Souvenirs * The Late John Garfield Blues * Sour Grapes * Billy The Bum * The Frying Pan * Yes I Guess They Oughta Name a Drink After You * Take the Star Out of the Window * The Great Compromise * Clocks and Spoons * Rocky Mountain Time * Diamonds in the Rough)

Einstein and Folkways Records

Einsteinviolin

If a movie was ever made about the early years of Folkways Records, someone would have to play Albert Einstein.

It would only be a cameo and its true importance is hard to assess, but nevertheless there is an anecdote that links the father of modern physics with the label that brought us Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, and the New Lost City Ramblers.

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My research is in its early stages. But it keeps getting clearer and clearer to me that Folkways Records wasn’t just a label that released folk records. It has been a significant force in shaping the way music listeners in the United States and beyond think about their culture and their past.

For example, Woody Guthrie has sometimes seemed to me, and others, as some kind of mythical legendary superfolk. Much of the reason is that Pete Seeger consciously set out to make sure he was remembered this way. But it seems very doubtful that either Pete or Woody would have had the careers they had without Folkways.

Also, as I understand it, Leadbelly had such a degrading experience under management of the Lomaxes that it’s unclear how much recording he would have done if Folkways founder Moses Asch hadn’t brought him into the studio.

And Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music came out on Folkways and continues to be a major conduit between Americans and their own musical heritage. But when Smith walked into the Folkways offices, all he wanted to do was sell them his old record collection. Having Harry put together an anthology was the idea of Moses Asch.

And remember that the very first LP of bluegrass music ever released was on the Folkways label.

And on page 15 of Bob Dylan’s autobiography, Dylan tells us why he went to New York: “I envisioned myself recording for Folkways Records. That was the label I wanted to be on. That was the label that put out all the great records.”

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Here’s what I know about Einstein’s role — plus a little of what I don’t know.

Moe Asch was the son of Shalom Asch, perhaps the best-known novelist writing in Yiddish and a leading leftist intellectual. He and Albert Einstein were acquaintances. In the late 1930s, both men were actively trying to rescue German and other European Jews endangered by the Third Reich. They encouraged and enabled Jews to leave Europe and tried to get reluctant governments, including the U.S., to accept Jewish refugees.

The young Moe Asch had recently acquired a new “portable” audio recording machine (an enormous, weighty beast in the 1930s). At this point, accounts vary in certain details. Usually, Shalom Asch brings his son and his son’s machine to Princeton, NJ to record a message from Einstein about European Jews for later radio broadcast. In one version, Einstein visits the Asches in their home for the same purpose.

At some point, Einstein apparently asked the young Asch what he wanted to do for a living, and Moe offered that he might like to be a mathematician. (I can imagine a young man answering this way in hopes of pleasing Einstein, then one of the most famous celebrities on Earth.) After the recording was finished, Einstein told Moe Asch that his recording machine was a better path to follow if he wanted a creative and prosperous future.

In some accounts, Einstein speaks expansively about the machine’s potential to record and preserve global civilization. In some accounts, it’s Asch who speaks of starting a company that would “describe the human race, the sound it makes, what it creates,” and Einstein reacts encouragingly. According to Moe Asch himself, Einstein told him:

It’s very important for the 20th Century to have someone like me who understood the intellect and who understood the changes of the 20th Century and who understood folk and dissemination.

Given the very real and immediate threat to Western Civilization that was the very reason for their meeting, it’s not hard to imagine any of these scenarios.

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A little harder to imagine, in detail, is the account Pete Seeger liked to tell his audiences. Seeger was close to Moe Asch and knew him well, but he was also a better entertainer and myth-maker than he was a historian:

… and then over supper, Einstein says, “Well young Mr. Asch, what do you do for a living?” And Mo says, “Well, I make a living installing public address systems into hotels, but I’ve just bought this recording machine, and I’m fascinated with what it can do. And in New York, I’ve met a Negro musician named Leadbelly who’s a fantastic musician but nobody’s recording him. They say he’s not commercial. But I think this is American culture and it should be recorded. Down in the Library of Congress they record things and just put it on the shelf there and only a few people ever hear them.”

Well, Einstein says, “You’re exactly right. Americans don’t appreciate their culture. It’ll be a Polish Jew like you who will do the job.”

I doubt Pete Seeger’s account, but mostly because there’s too much truth packed into it.

The genius of Folkways Records was that it was the fabled “cool corporation.” Asch turned his back on the risky business of making “hits” and instead focused on a sure bet — if you record something great and rare, somebody will want it eventually. So he recorded whatever seemed to be in the spirit of his conversation with Einstein, gave it excellent and exhaustive liner notes, and kept it in print forever. (The “Sounds of North American Frogs” has been available continuously since 1958 — and in 1998 it was even digitally remastered and released on CD.)

I’ve also recently come to really appreciate the vital roles that Europeans played in preserving American folk music, Northerners played in preserving the sounds of the South, whites have played in keeping black musical traditions alive and kicking … and so on, ad infinitum. The Celestial Monochord is lousy with such stories if you know where to look. In researching these curious histories, one finds Folkways Records almost continuously at the center of the action.

Aschsonnybrownie
Moses Asch, Sonny Terry, and Brownie McGhee in 1958 (from a 1-megabyte article from the National Yiddish Book Center, available as a PDF.)

The Frying Pan

John Prine writes a song like The Frying Pan now and then — strong shades of parody, joyously silly (even stupid), and irresistibly appealing. “Let’s Talk Dirty in Hawaiian” and “Aw Heck” and the next song on Diamonds in the Rough, “Yes, I Guess They Oughta Name a Drink After You,” are like that. Should we think seriously about a song that couldn’t even get recorded with a straight face?

The lyrics to The Frying Pan are wildly unambitious and seem like they may have been made up on the spot. They relate the tragic tale of a man who comes home from work to find that his wife has left him. He grieves. And that’s about the extent of it.

There are a few telling details. The wife leaves her goodbye note in the frying pan, presumably to make the point that she was appreciated neither very deeply nor for the right things:

I come home from a-work this evening
There was a note in the frying pan
It said, “Fix your own supper, babe.
I run off with the Fuller Brush man.”

The song doesn’t say whether he actually makes his supper in that pan – a bitterly seasoned meal indeed! Prine’s character then “commenced a-carrying on”:

And I miss the way she used to yell at me
The way she used to cuss and moan
And if I ever go out and get married again
I’ll never leave my wife at home

So the character grows, and his future wives may find him somewhat more attentive.

——

John Prine understands that the ordinary details of everyday life are where all the drama and meaning are. But the details of everyday life keep changing with surprising speed –- you realize this more the older you get. I think this is why the songs on Diamonds in the Rough seem so meaningfully, precisely, poignantly located at a specific point in the past.

The last door-to-door salesman I remember seeing was an actual Fuller Brush Man who came to our door when I was around nine. I dimly remember his case full of brushes, as well as the feeling he created that buying some brushes was absolutely inescapable. I very distinctly recall my mother once asking me to tell him I was home alone while she was, in fact, hiding nearby. I guess I may be from the last generation of John Prine listeners who will have direct experience with Fuller Brush men at the door.

Appreciating a Prine song – or any song – requires more and more research, explanation, and imagination the older the song gets. It requires more and more of the listener’s participation and knowledge to make the full meaning and pleasure happen. That’s why it makes sense to me, at least, that popular song might first have become accepted as high art in the context of a Folk Revival.

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Bluegrass is lurking in all the arrangements on Diamonds in the Rough, but only The Frying Pan puts it at center stage. Everything is there, except maybe a fiddle.

David Bromberg’s mandolin “chops” the rhythm and then does lightning-fast runs. Steve Goodman provides the requisite smokin’ bluesy guitar solo and high-lonesome backup vocals. Steve Burgh provides standup bass. And Dave Prine plays the most recognized of all bluegrass signatures — a 5-string banjo with a resonator back, played with three fingers and finger picks. The solo spot after each chorus is taken by another instrument, passing the spotlight around from one bandmember to another. It’s bluegrass.

There’s just one thing. I’m used to thinking of bluegrass in a smooth, fast 4/4 time — each beat in the measure emphasized (or de-emphasized) the same. This open, spacious, adaptable meter is what allows the complex, syncopating, polyphonic, collective noodling of a bluegrass band — and it also allows that band to “stay together,” to remain in close conversation with itself. The 4/4 meter was Bill Monroe’s main and final insight, learned from the jazz of the 1920s and 1930s, and it completed his creation of bluegrass music.

The Frying Pan, as I hear it, is in the meter Bill Monroe finally left behind –- the 2/4 time that’s closely associated with oldtime stringband music and that gives it an easy, front porch, loping feel. Instead of the banjo skittering, independent as a hog on ice, across the surface of an open 4/4 time, Dave Prine’s playing sounds cramped inside the ONE two THREE four oldtime beat. The result is a banjo that sounds simple, old, and sincere, if somewhat bound by circumstances. It also sounds like the banjo-playing that David Akeman and Earl Scuggs did in Monroe’s band in 1945 and 1946. The Frying Pan sounds like a portrait of bluegrass represented exactly at the moment it became itself.

The Old Negro Space Program

My wife has just made me aware of a lost chapter of American history that is at once uplifting and downcasting, both inspiring and … sort of not inspiring.

A new documentary by Ken Burns (not really) tells the story of the old Negro space program, in large part through interviews with the original Blackstronauts themselves:

A lot of people today, they don’t think about it. They say “Oh, they’re putting a man on the moon” or “Oh, they’re putting up another space shuttle.” But you see, they don’t realize that in the early days of the space program, NASA was whites-only … It was it a different time, you understand. See, in 1957 if you were black — and if you were an astronaut — you were out of work.

You can watch the nearly 11-minute film (which was excluded from the Sundance Film Festival on the pretense that it was not submitted to the Sundance Film Festival) at www.negrospaceprogram.com.

Those U.S. State Department Blues

I just read an essay by Paul Oliver, one of the best-known historians of the blues, about why it is that much of the best and earliest work on the blues had long been done by Europeans.

Swedes, Belgians, Germans, French, Englishmen and others wrote exhaustive studies of the meanings of blues songs, compiled 2000-page catalogs of blues 78s, founded some of the first magazines anywhere devoted to blues — all of this long before America had a "blues revival."

Charles Delaunay had to write "Hot Discography" secretly, on onion skin, because he was in the middle of the Nazi occupation of France. When Paul Oliver (a Brit) wrote "The Blues Fell This Morning," Martin Luther King wrote the introduction.

In 1960 — the year "The Blues Fell This Morning" was published — Paul Oliver finally scraped up enough money to actually visit the United States, the birthplaces of the blues he loved so much. He traveled to Washington, New York, Detroit, Memphis, New Orleans, Shreveport, Dallas and various parts of Mississippi and Arkansas. He stayed with Muddy Waters in Chicago and traveled with Chris Strachwitz, who founded Arhoolie records using some of the recordings they made. The impact of the trip on Oliver’s life and scholarship was incalculable.

The trip was made possible by a very small grant from the U.S. Department of State — a grant "for leaders and specialists."

I don’t know whether such grants still come out of the State Department or from anywhere else in the U.S. government anymore. I do hear frequent stories of scholars having to give presentations to conferences in the U.S. via telephone or satellite hook-up due to difficulties getting temporary visas to travel here — and I mean British astronomers and Swedish music historians and the like. I often read about such incidents in left-wing rags like … Sky and Telescope, for example. Bad times, bad times.

Editor’s Note: Paul Oliver’s essay is in "Sounds of the South," a collection of papers from a conference celebrating the 1989 opening of the Southern Folklife Collection at Chapel Hill. It was edited by Daniel W. Patterson … and I’m finding it really interesing. Also, thanks to reader Bill B. for, among other things, correcting my spelling of Chris Strachwitz’s name.

Billy The Bum

Child_with_crutches

About 15 years ago, a friend of mine wanted to cite an example of a bad John Prine song, so he chose Billy The Bum, calling it “a shambles of a song.” At the time, it seemed like a good example to me, mostly because the song’s shameless sentimentality made me cringe. But I’ve gone through a lot since then.

Around 1999, after I’d pretty much memorized the Anthology of American Folk Music, I was starving for more blues and hillbilly recordings from the 1920’s. So I sought out recordings by many of the same performers Harry Smith had put in his collection. And there, beyond the Anthology, were many astonishing surprises for which the Anthology had not really prepared me.

Chief among them, initially, was how often these performers had recorded extremely sentimental 19th century “parlor songs,” as I call them. These earnest, stiff numbers told tales full of pathos about drowning sailors, dying orphans, childhood cottages never seen again. Maybe Harry Smith had mostly ignored them because they weren’t “folk songs” in a certain sense — most were relatively new compositions from the late 1800’s, widely sold as sheet music for middle-class homes. In the late 1920’s, white folk musicians made sound recordings of them for the first time, their original copyright status long forgotten.

Initially, I was a little impatient with them — a bit embarrassed, disappointed, and amused by their commercialism and their hokiness. But after listening closely to dozens of them, researching the origins of several of them, and having a few conversion experiences with them (I guess you’d say), I’ve come to love them. There’s Charlie Poole’s “Baltimore Fire”:

It was on a silver falls by a narrow
That I heard a cry I ever will remember
The fire sent and cast its burning embers
On another faded city of our land

Fire! Fire! I heard the cry
On every breeze that passes by
All the world was one sad cry of pity
Strong men in anguish prayed
Calling loud to Heaven for aid
While the fire in ruin was laying
Fair Baltimore, our beautiful city

There’s Buell Kazee’s “If You Love Your Mother”:

In a lonely graveyard many miles away
Lies your own dear mother slumbering ‘neath the clay
Or have you forgotten all her tears and sighs
If you love your mother, meet her in the skies

She is waiting for you in that happy home
Turn from sin’s dark pathway to no longer roam
Give your heart to Jesus, upward lift your eyes
If you love your mother, meet her in the skies

And then there’s the Carter Family, whose influence now seems to me ubiquitous in John Prine’s music (and who provided the title song for Diamonds in the Rough). The Carters recorded these sentimental parlor songs more often and more movingly than anybody ever has. Their “Engine 143” did make it onto The Anthology:

Georgie’s mother came to him with a bucket on her arm
Saying my darling son be careful how you run
For many a man has lost his life in trying to make lost time
And if you run your engine right you’ll get there just on time

Up the road he darted, against the rocks he crushed
Upside down the engine turned and Georgie’s breast did smash
His head was against the firebox door the flames are rolling high
I’m glad I was born for an engineer to die on the C&O road

I’ve come to appreciate these songs as beautifully written and recorded, often, but also as an important part of the roots of American music. In no small part through the influence of the Carter Family, country music is heavily based on them (what do you get when you play a country record backwards?).

Billy The Bum, which I’ve known for over 30 years, is today a completely new song to me. I hear it within a tradition that’s well over a hundred years old and that I’ve taken deeply, if cautiously, into my emotional, intellectual, and maybe spiritual life.

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Billy The Bum is another of Diamonds In The Rough’s country waltzes. The first verse again establishes John Prine’s firm flat-picking, accompanied by David Bromberg on a second acoustic guitar. Bromberg plays mostly bass runs, but strums often to help keep the beat. I’d say he plays “oldtime guitar” — an art that’s been essentially lost to the upright bass, on the one hand, and bluegrass guitar on the other.

With the first statement of the chorus, Bromberg begins dubbing over (I assume, unless he’s playing with his toes) the sliding dobro that gives the song much of its countrified twang. Also on each chorus Dave Prine enters, turned down very low in the mix, singing back-up vocals in a strained, high-lonesome wail, like a far-off cry in the wilderness.

As I understand the lyrics, Billy always fantasized about riding the rails as a hobo, but because his legs had been twisted by polio, he could only hop a train in his imagination:

Billy the Bum lived by the thumb
Sang of the hobo’s delight
He’d prove he could run twice as fast as the sun
By losing his shadow with night

He loved every girl in this curly-headed world
But no one will know, it seems
For two twisted legs and a childhood disease
Left Billy just a bum in his dreams

It’s interesting that even in the 20’s and 30’s — presumably the heyday of hobo culture — films and songs romanticized the lifestyle, seducing many young people into riding the rails. In other words, hobos were already a dream even back when they were still a reality. Billy was only one of millions who dreamed of riding the blinds. There’s a sad irony and richness here — his polio made him a bum in his own eyes, unable to attain his dreams, which included being a real bum on the open road:

He lived all alone in a run-down home
Near the side of the old railroad track
Where the trains used to run carrying freight by the ton
And blow the whistle as Billy waved back

It seems fairly clear to me that John Prine has always believed in Jesus Christ, that he’s a christian. But if this is right, his work presents us with a rare and fearsome portrait of a blazingly angry and disappointed, public-spirited, and wildly playful faith. Prine’s first album is all about spirituality, if you look at it just so, and is big enough to contain everything from “Eat a lotta peaches, try to find Jesus” to “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes — Jesus Christ died for nothing, I suppose.”

If Prine were an atheist like myself, it would be a different matter. But given Prine’s long and powerful history of working out his thoughts about faith in song, I don’t take lightly his portrait of the song’s townspeople, whose children “seemed to have nothing better to do than to run around his house with their tongues from their mouths.”

Now some folks’ll wait and some folks’ll pray
For Jesus to rise up again
But none of these folks in their holy cloaks
Ever took Billy on as a friend

For pity’s a crime and ain’t worth a dime
To a person who’s really in need
Just treat ’em the same as you would your own name
Next time that your heart starts to bleed

It’s easy enough, if you prefer, to hear easy platitudes and a certain self-righteousness in this indictment. But given Prine’s body of work and the religious themes he’s explored so frankly, I think we’re bound to take this portrait seriously. Trapped among such people by his physical disabilities and his shame, Billy, a real fluorescent light, cried pennies on Sunday morning.

By this point, I’ve come to decide that it’s a defense mechanism, this tendency not to really hear the lyrics of these old-style sentimental songs. If we took them literally, pictured them, read them over, took them at their word, they’d cut too close to the bone. They’d go places we’ve decided, as a culture, we don’t want to go.

It’s no wonder that generation after generation of Americans experience a recurring “Folk Revival” in which young people rediscover acts like the Carter Family. And, regardless of what else might be said about them, it’s no wonder that these Revivals are continually experienced by their participants as a burning away of some vast, heavy haze of sanitized corporate nonsense to reveal something that finally, at long last, matters.

Lay Down Your Weary Tune

The comments below were originally submitted to another entry — a really excellent one, I think.

I got tired of seeing that original post diluted by an unrelated question, so I created a space for these comments.

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I have been listening to Bob Dylan’s “Lay down your weary tune, lay down.” Somewhere back in my childhood (I’m 80 yrs old now) I think I sang that song, or at least the melody, as a hymn. Have you come across any info on this song? OTM

Posted by: Orville Murphy | November 13, 2005 at 10:47 PM

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Hi Orville,

Thanks for visiting The Celestial Monochord.

Sadly, I don’t have an answer for you. There is a wonderful community of people who often have answers for very difficult questions about folk music, although their site can be a little confusing and sometimes slow. Maybe you should check them out and ask around at Mudcat. They’re at:

www.mudcat.org

I’ve done you the favor of looking there for the answer, and all I’ve found is several OTHER people struggling to find the answer to the same question.

Dylan apparently has said that he heard the tune either on the BBC while visiting the UK or at Joan Baez’s house on a record. It may have been an old bagpipe tune and/or Scottish hymn. In any case, it had no words, so he wrote some and probably adapted the tune somewhat. Seeing as he only heard the tune once, he had no choice but to sort of make some of it up.

Some at Mudcat say that the melody resembles The Water is Wide. Others say it resembles How Can I keep from Singing. In any case, a lot of old hymns have the same chord structure and the same pattern of syllables, which makes them easy for a congregation to sing. It may sound like a 1000 songs.

Also, note that more than a few songs have the phrase “lay down your weary” something-or-other. For example, one version of Barbara Allen (the oldest song in the whole world) contains:

She walked over yon garden field
She heard the dead-bell knelling
And every stroke that the dead-bell gave
It cried, “Woe be to you now, Ellen.”

As she walked over the garden field
She saw his corpse a-comin’,
“Lay down, lay down your weary load
Until I get to look upon him.”

Sorry I couldn’t help more! Good luck in your search!

Kurt G.

Posted by: The Celestial Monochord | November 14, 2005 at 07:39 PM

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Regarding ‘Lay down your weary tune’: I note on the Biograph notes that he found a Scottish ballad without lyrics and used the melody.

There is some simularity to the sound you may hear when Gaelic psalms are sung (cf. Scottish tradition Vol.6 Gaelic Psalms from Lewis. GreenTrax recordings)

I note from a much earlier time in Celtic past that singing was done to sound like the cadence of the sea and of its waves rolling in.

Posted by: Mike | May 19, 2007 at 09:37 AM

Kitten Astronauts as “The Other”

My cats Georgia (top) and Henry (middle) enjoy their new toy, a small fishbowl. Georgia puts her head inside while also kicking and grabbing at other toys, while Henry’s more apt to just sit placidly with his head in the bowl, looking around. They stay there for long periods of time, Henry often for up to 45 minutes, his breath steaming up the glass.

I don’t know why. And so, Houston, we have a problem:

Maybe they like the sonic environment it creates — a world where the only sound is their own breathing, like nursing with their mother. On the other hand, they don’t purr or knead when they do this (for a change — they are avid nursers).

Maybe the glass distorts the room, making things look “weird” — and certainly, they like their world when it’s defamiliarized. Georgia, who often seems a little bored, likes touring the apartment atop my shoulders. On the other hand, she uses the bowl for shorter periods than Henry and does less “looking” while she’s there. Henry, who’s less bored with his surroundings, enjoys the view more.

Therefore, my pet theory (sorry for the pun) is that they’re pretending that they’re astronauts (e.g., John Glenn, also shown above for easy comparison). I believe they imagine themselves to be in Outer Space. They must appreciate this, as I do, as a metaphor for their status as The Other, as representatives from outside of language and discourse, emissaries from a place beyond history and culture.

Sour Grapes

Grapesprint
(illustration by Sally Minker)

Two songs ago, on Souvenirs, Steve Goodman’s guitar work was very hard to peel apart from John Prine’s. But Prine’s guitar picking pattern here on Sour Grapes seems very close to that on Souvenirs, but without Goodman’s embroidery. You can use Sour Grapes as a tool to get a better handle on what Prine’s right hand is up to on Souvenirs.

More importantly, Prine’s relatively unadorned, unsupported guitar work here also gives the song a spare regularity, like the lonesome ticking of an old mantel clock. Sour Grapes is mood song — in fact, it’s remarkable how many songs from Diamonds in the Rough can be summed up as “a mood put across in lyric and melody.”

The mood in Sour Grapes seems familiar enough, and that familiarity makes the song seem funny, like a silly little tune. Which I think is perfectly true.

But simply taking the words seriously and literally leads me to ask what else is happening. The speaker of the song has retained some friends solely to prevent other people from thinking he’s mentally ill, for example. Is Prine’s deadpan humor more funny than it is chilling?

I don’t care if the sun don’t shine
But it better, or people will wonder

Even when he writes a tossed-off song, Prine leaves you wondering …