my boy is blonde as buttered corn 

Taste of Heaven

better days @ www.coopradio.org

Taste Of Heaven

City backporch bleached by sun
Sunday mornin' breakfast done
Light and shadow havin' fun in the neighborhood
The green of leaf, the cool of rock
Someone singing down the block
Ol' Mother Earth she likes to talk
And what she says is good

This must be my taste of heaven
I've had my meal in hell
It's summertime, I'm in my prime
And all my work goes well

My darlin's dream by silver fed
She's still sleeping in my bed
I swear that when she turns her head
Her hair's a waterwheel
That turns and catches coins of light
I think we're gonna be all right
The simple waltz of day and night
The rhythm of what's real

chorus

My boy is blond as buttered corn
I bless the day that he was born
He wets the reed and puts the horn
Of plenty to his mouth
Sure thing now, persistence pays
I've learned to play as it as lays
I could spend these summer days
Just squinting to the south

chorus

DL

Slideshow Songs

The last two summers I've taken part as a performer
at the Mickey Newbury Gatherings in Austin, Texas.
Last June, I was able to perform with some special
people, including Jonmark Stone, Marie Rhines,
Cowboy Johnson, and Mickey's youngest daughter,
Laura Shayne. This link is to mp3s of two songs that
I sang in Texas last summer, along with a slideshow
put together by Kurt Milliken of Colorado, another
Newbury fan. You may need to download a free
slideshow viewer in order to see the photographs.
http://www.photodex.com/sharing/viewshow.html?fl=2230185&alb=102659

andreu cuts loose 

Ice #5 : Lagasmidur

http://betterdaysradio.blogspot.com/

Iceland #5 : Lagasmidur

The ballroom of the Hotel Borg in downtown Reykjavik
is buzzing at 4:45 pm. Dori, master of the Blues Ice Festival,
takes me backstage to the performers lounge. Here I am first
introduced to Andreu, "the Koko Taylor of Icelandic blues,"
a blonde beauty with don´t-you-ever-bullshit-me-baby
blue eyes. She is having a beer with the much-revered local
guitar hero, Gudmundur Petursson, a lanky fellow with long
ringlets of red hair. Dori pans his hand across the whole of
the lounge, says, "This is for you, Duck Long from Canada.
You are velkominn anytime in the festival to relax, smoke,
drink, jam, make friends..." I look around at the leather sofas,
refrigerators stocked deep with long brown bottles, guitar cases
stacked on the tables, cigarettes. It's good to be welcomed.

Next thing I know I am being shuffled into a photo of Blues Ice
performers taken for the Frettabladid newspaper. Next it´s a
radio interview, and then we´re drawn into the ballroom by
the lovely hostess and emcee, Brynhildur. She captures the
attention of the crowd of media and festival friends and
announces the beginning of the Blues Ice Festival´s Media
Cocktail party. There is a lot of excitement in the air.

It is 5:00 p.m. on this Tuesday afternoon in sunny Reykjavik
and the crowd enthusiastically welcomes Andreu to the stage
along with a four-piece backing band of local bluesboys. There
is something primal about a woman singing the blues. She
does a slow-burning number, whispering low and sultry into
the microphone at first, then cutting loose with a gnawing
growl that makes everyone sit a little more straight up. "Blues
ain´t nothin´ but a good woman feelin´ bad!" and oh my, she´s
got the solar plexus scoop of it, the open-throated wail of a
woman who knows what hurt is, and we´ve got gold-leaf paint
falling like God´s most expensive confetti from heaven.

Hey tall son, I am in schnapping schnapps in Reykjavik and
the blues is alive and well here! Andreu has four or five of the
photographers popping their flashes in her face as she throws
her hair back for the final howl, a floating necklace of flung
perspiration sailing through the air as she shakes it blonde
in seven directions at once. This feverish cut is being fed live
over national radio to promote the festival, and I have to think
that the Hotel Borg will be crowded if anyone was listening.

The band does an instrumental shuffle with plenty of biting
guitar exchanges, and then it´s time for the Canadian, fresh
from a visit to the backstage lounge for a quick Camel and a
little sip of a special blue liquer made especially for the occasion.
Dori takes the microphone again. "From Canada, we are lucky
to have him, lagasmidur, velkominn Duck Long." I love the
way he says my name. I am using Dori´s Gibson hollow body,
plugged in with volume and reverb, and I say, "Takk, takk,"
as I sit down at the microphones. I begin picking on a big fat
E-chord, watching my breath go all the way down into my
abdomen, watching it come all the way up again out the mouth.
I do one of mine called Road You Call Me Now, a comfort-food
song if ever there was one...

"I´m gonna travel this old country long as the angels allow..."

It's a song I'll sing all my life, one in which I feel at home. While
the applause continues, Dori gives me the universal circle signal
meaning "Do another." I choose Iceland Blues, hoping they´ll
understand the spirit of its humour...

"Let´s stay under the covers, long as it stays dark...won´t have
to eat no sheep´s balls or chew no buried shark."

A few chuckles. I´m done. I made it through. "Takk, takk, bless."

I ask Disa later what lagasmidur means, the word Dori threw
out there in the introduction. "It means melody carpenter,"
she explains. I laugh. "I thought I was a songmadur," I say
as the crowd noise rises again for the next performance. We
stay to hear another two songs, then the press party ends and
we´re out on the waterfront, white geese overhead. Disa takes
my photo standing under the Hotel Borg awning, the Borg being
Iceland's oldest, most legendary hotel. There´s a police car
parked nearby guarding the cables leading out to the radio truck.
I nod to the officers, hoping none of them recognize me from
wanted posters of illegal aliens, haha. I am kidding, of course,
as people here are so welcoming and friendly, interested to know
if I am enjoying my visit, quick to bridge from Icelandic to English
for my sake, especially after I show them how adept I am at
murdering their native tongue.

DL

it's good to be loved 

When You Are Old

better days @ www.coopradio.org

When You Are Old

When you are old
I'll bring you coffee
Fresh black coffee
Strong and bold
Your best poems
I'll read them to you
In the mornings
When you're old

When you're alone
A life in shadow
I'll bring sunshine
Good and gold
I'll build a fire
In your pot belly
In the mornings
When you're old

Come the winter
I'll chop kindling
Bring your blanket
Come the cold
On the days
That are not friendly
I'll be there
When you are old

Raw tobacco
Slice of apple
Two cigarettes
Expertly rolled
Light up together
In your kitchen
In the mornings
When you're old

When you are old
I'll bring you coffee
Fresh black coffee
Strong and bold
Your last poems
I'll read them to you
In the mornings
When you're old

DL

Karine Polwart in Yerevan, Armenia last week (photo by Vahan)

Recommended CDs

http://betterdaysradio.blogspot.com/

A Better Days Dozen : April 2005

Faultlines by Karine Polwart www.karinepolwart.com
Mercy Now by Mary Gauthier www.marygauthier.com (video)
Woman King by Iron & Wine
The Graceful Ghost by Grey De Lisle
The Waking Hour by David Francey
Dear Heather by Leonard Cohen
Man For Galway by Sean Tyrrell
Redbird by Redbird
1798 The First Year Of Liberty by Frank Harte
An Echo Of Hooves by June Tabor
Banjoman by Various Artists
The Duhks by The Duhks


DL

leif & the poet hallgrim's church

The Compass

better days @ www.coopradio.org

The Compass

In his hand a sailor's compass
The needle pointed north
He never knew or cared to know
How it could read the earth
He never learned to write his name
Or read the alphabet
He knew the pleasures of the sea
And tonight he's sailing yet
For a land the soul discovers
Without a map or star
None but the fiercest lovers
Ever sail that far

He's guided by the compass
And a knowledge of the tides
He's been out in the Gulf Stream
Where the world divides
He knows the earth is turning
That greater storms will come
Waves will beat upon his boat
Like fists upon a drum
It may be the North Atlantic
It may be a smoking bay
None but the fiercest lovers
Ever travel up that way

In old age he still believes
In mystery and friend
And trusts his compass points toward
A harbor at the end
But the loneliness can eat you
If you do not sleep
He closes up his eyes and sails
His trust upon the deep
Birds fly alongside his boat
A few come to his hand
None but the fiercest lovers know
The route to the new land

He holds that ancient compass
It tells him where he is
Passed down through generations
Now, at last, it's his
To use to guide his journey
Whether lost or found
At some point the sea becomes
More solid than the ground
The dolphins play beside him now
Leaping from the foam
None but the fiercest lovers know
Their kiss itself is home

DL