Better Days

Welcome to the blog of Doug "Duke" Lang, songwriter and host of Better Days, a radio show spinning journeys from music and language, heard Thursdays ten-to-midnight Pacific time at www.coopradio.org Listen to songs at www.myspace.com/dukelang

Name:
Location: Vancouver, Canada

Tuesday, April 05, 2005


Townes Van Zandt Posted by Hello

Lone Star Webstation

http://betterdaysradio.blogspot.com/

Marquetta Herring runs the Lone Star Webstation, which
offers Texas Music news and more. I was fortunate to have
one of my cds reviewed there by a Gnu Yawkeh named
Hank Beukema. Lone Star Webstation keeps you updated
on all things musical, Texan and worth knowing about,
including the latest on heroes of mine like Lucinda Williams,
Townes Van Zandt, and Mickey Newbury. She's put up a
new link for me to the Better Days blog. Thanks, Marq!
http://www.lonestarwebstation.com/mtmkfront.html


sandra at the acropolis in athens Posted by Hello

Leoben

better days @ www.coopradio.org

We hitchhiked all over Europe that year, Sandra and I.
We had read Ed's book about vagabonding in Europe,
how small the cars are, and had followed his advice
about having smaller, frameless backpacks. Having smaller
packs meant leaving some things behind, finding them
in Europe as we needed them, sometimes being given
them for free by the angels of the road. Good advice, Ed.

I did take a guitar, though, a beat-up Yamaha FG-180
and five sets of medium gauge strings. Sandra had long
black hair in those days that blew back from her high
brown cheekbones and deep brown eyes. I think when
you travel with a woman as lovely as her, the rides
tend to come a little easier. I suppose I could've worried
that we'd attract the wrong kinds of rides, but we didn't,
not once, and we were over there almost a year.
Instead, we found the generous ones, the good souls
of the world. I'm thinking of crazy Gerry and dapper Dave
in Bristol, of Phoebe and Richard in Sherbourne in Dorset,
of Gerdi and Margaret in Kerkrade in Holland, of Gianna
in Venezia and another Gianna in Roma, Isis from Cairo,
Ahmed and Zaffir from Karachi, and the madman Irish poet
Desmond O'Grady in Naoussa, Paros, and of Yorgos and
Marguerite, too, who ran the tavern there where I played
almost every night and was never allowed to pay for our
food or drinks. One night Marguerite asked if I'd play with
Yorgos if she brought his accordion down. He hadn't
played it in a few years, her son Stefano interpreted her
concerns to me. We played and sang and everyone cried,
including me and Yorgos. The fishermen stayed up late
that night, until their wives dragged them by the sleeves.

After two nights in Munich, we were given a lift to a truck
stop where our host and another angel of the road, secured
us a ride with one of the drivers there. We crossed into
Austria at nightfall. It began raining and the road was
flooding a little. I remember passing a sign that read Belsen.
The driver spoke no English, but he had a tape player blaring
Elvis Presley songs, and we rocked to that and talked to
each other anyway, throwing up our hands and laughing
at our impasse. It must have been almost two o'clock in
the morning when he pulled over. Pulling out a map he showed
us where we were, made a line cutting back, then pointed
to his chest and pointing back over his shoulder. As far as
we could understand, he'd gone off course to take us a
little farther south and now, at two a.m., needed to turn
back. He got out and helped us down from his cab. He then
pointed to a gasthaus up a sideroad. The sign on the way
in to the town had read LEOBEN.

There weren't a lot of lights, except a 40-watt bulb burning
outside the little train station across the roadway. We
shook hands and said goodbye, our rain ponchos making a
loud sound as the drops pelted down. The guesthouse was
dark except for an amber light outside. We knocked three
times, but no answer. Sandra was tired and, being in the
middle of somewhere in the wee hours without a place to
stay didn't strike her as being funny. We looked around the
town a little, but nothing was open and no lights were on.
Except one, that is, back down the road, the dim bulb
outside the train station.

We walked down there. It was an old wooden building
with a brighter lightbulb burning inside the waiting room.
There appeared to be no one there at all. We tried the door,
it opened, and we walked in, dripping rain on the polished
tiles of the waiting room floor. A uniformed guard emerged,
a gun on his hip, looked at us warily, then looked at the floor
where the water was creating rivulets. He growled something,
and I said something to him like "Gasthaus ferme," blending
Austrian and French and holding up my hands as if to say,
"What are two Canadian vagabonds to do at this hour?"
He made a big noise getting a mop out, wiping up our mess,
and I'd say he was muttering curses, except I don't know
if that language ever sounds like what you'd call muttering.
Done, he turned and went back into his little office behind
the barred window and sat down. There were a few benches
in the waiting room. We put our backpacks down, removed
our rain capes, and sat down, both of us shivering. More
water was dripping on to the floor, of course.

"He's going to kick us out of here," Sandra said.
"Where are we going to go?" I said, "it's a train station,
"I'm not sure if he can kick us out of here."
"Yeah," she said, "but those boots, that gun..."
I smiled then. "Let's see what happens."

In a few minutes, the guard (watchman?) got up, but only
walked past us to use the washroom. Those boots were loud.
"I'm tired," Sandra said, and got out her sleeping bag
and crawled in. I sat next to her, glancing at the man
in the office, then, when my hands felt warm enough,
took out my guitar. I played Kristofferson's song...
Busted flat in Baton Rouge, headed for the train....
I thought I could see the guard nod ever so slightly
as I got to the chorus. My hands were cold still,
but I always trusted music, so I started singing another.
I got a feelin' called the blues since my baby said goodbye.
Hank Williams. He looked up immediately and our eyes met.
After that I broke into Hey Good Lookin', and he got up
and adjusted the thermostat. The heat started coming.
Hank was working. Take These Chains From My Heart was next.
The guard was definitely nodding now. As I finished,
he came out and said in his Austrian voice, "Honk Villiams."
"Yeah," I nodded. He made a motion with his hand
which I took to mean, play another Honk Villiams.

So I did. I got out my song lyrics folder and played
Move It On Over, then Jambalaya.
When I broke into Lonesome Whistle, he sat down
on the bench across from ours. The boots were tapping now,
and that once stern face began to relax some.
I did a few more. Lost Highway, I think, You Win Again,
and finally, I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.

Sandra was falling asleep. I put my guitar down and made
the hands together sign next my ear, meaning I will sleep
now. It was 3:30 in the morning. Our watchman-guard
nodded, got to his feet and said something that sounded
like good music, then walked back into his office and put
his feet up. I put my guitar back in its case, got out my
sleeping bag and found a bench for myself alongside Sandra's.

"Was Hank big in Germany and Austria?" Sandra said.
"I don't know, San," I said, "but I'm glad this guy likes him,
'cause I'd run out of Hank songs..."

We said good night and laid back, toasty in our bags,
each with a forearm over our eyes. In a few minutes,
our Honk Villiams fan turned out the overhead light
and we fell into deep sleep in the cozy darkness of a
little town in the Austrian Alps called Leoben.

DL

Old Pontiac

http://betterdaysradio.blogspot.com/

Mickey, you still out there?

Every time I hear
a rough-sounding Pontiac
I look to see if it’s you
young and lousy with urges
that had no chords yet to lie upon
riving through towns looking
or your next song
a warm place to sleep

Missed you by two nights in
sunlit Frisco, your show at the
Great American Music Hall
good enough to have the doorman
still talking about it as he
let me in to see Jerry Jeff

I’ve read most of the stories, how
you slept in laundromats and backseats
before you found out who you were
before America found out who you were
read about how you burned that
highway down in ‘59, a boy still
from freaky Houston
finding his way

When the Ponitac wouldn’t died
you fell in love with trains
hopping them, you and your guitar
town to town until you jumped off
for a gig just outside Beaumont
made one piss-poor landing
and broke your back in three places

Somehow after that, shrinking the pain
one night at a time over the next years
you managed to record three albums
in a garage called Cinderella
albums like nobody had done before

Looks Like Rain
Frisco Mabel Joy
Heaven Help The Child


They just didn’t fit anywhere
tracks bleeding together
sounds of rain falling, thunder cracks
wind singing up high in the attic
long lonesome trains blowing
blues harp in the night

You said you put those sounds on
to hide the tape hiss
from that lowly four-track
that birthed your early masterpieces
but it made those records
like an intimate call to an old love
at two in the morning, made from
some door-broken-off phone booth
and you sounded calm
in the eye of that storm
saying things that took us all
out on the road, made us shiver
light a candle for luck
and for love

Those records made it hard
for deejays to know where to lay
the needle down
so they didn’t play them
at least until all but the listeners
had gone to bed : they weren’t
flavour of the day anyhow
but the ballads of a man
who’d already died
and come back
wiser

When you arrived on Music Row
they didn’t know where to put you
Acuff-Rose showed some sense
you made friends with Willie, Tom T
lived an outlaw’s tale before
anybody called it that
maverick heart in a city of shills
one of the first to ever make
theme albums, held together
by pluck, by courage

It wasn’t long before
you had number ones on four
charts in the same year
nobody'd done that before
or again, and I think you got
a better car then, helped a young
Texan songwriter named Townes
get his his first record deal
later you were offered a lot of money
for that contract but wouldn’t sell
then ripped it up and
set Townes free

Took a janitor’s tape to Roger Miller
from a kid named Kris
the song was good, Roger recorded it
and in Texas a girl named Janis
heard it, recorded it too
busted flat in Baton Rouge
headed for the trains
and Kris was on his way
a friend for life

You had a lot of friends, Mick
and as good a songwriter
as you were, seems you
were an even better friend
Kris would say so
Townes, Willie, Waylon
all would say so
and front porches are falling down
under the weight of others
who’d say so, too

You made it through
ten records in twelve years
most of them damned good
but the business drove you nuts
lack of integrity and trust
the weasels and leeches
and you stopped making records
for seven years, stopped
seeking the spotlight at all

The papers printed rumours that
you’d become a no-name drunk
that you were driving a truck
delivering bread to folks who lived
too far from stores
somebody even said you’d died
talking about you on a radio show
in the past tense
and I suppose that's what
living out in Oregon will do

The past was tense all right
but didn’t kill you
just drove you up north
and west a ways
to a place outside of Springfield
a farm near the Willamette River
a wife named Susan
children and foster children
and a sunshine made more precious
by the frequency of rain

Mickey, I figure that’s when
your spirit’s whistling melancholy
was redeemed

I know it’s work keeping a farm going
being father, husband, provider
that maybe you had enough coming in
from royalties and residuals
from big ol’ El doing Trilogy
Ray Charles, Don Gibson, Solomon Burke
Waylon, Willie, Kenny Rogers
covering songs you’d written
and maybe it finally bought you
some time to take stock and see
how being true is the best
crop to plant in this
or any year

Still we wondered
where’s Mick gone?
and then the website pops up
a new front porch is built where
friends and others drawn to the music
could sit and chat for hours
and some nights, late
you'd post a grin
and the stars would
wink a little

You started making music again
on your own label at last
the rains of the northwest
adding its own soft touches
and some of those later albums
rank up there with the first ones
even better for their mileage
older the car the better the ride
for how it knows the road
flint-silver of your words
taking on some pewter
expanding as it cooled
your rust-heart tenor
aching so warmly
I couldn’t always give it up
to listen, had to come back
later when my joints
were better oiled

Then I heard you were sick
news breaking a rearview mirror
I couldn’t see in anymore
but knew that something was
closer than it appeared
and one night I heard the windchimes
from a tree in my backyard
a light mist of a rain losing its
breath in the leaves

It was the end of September '02
old Pontiac wouldn’t start
and all the jumper cables
of love in the world couldn’t
reset the beat of your heart

I had a feeling that across the
broken promise land of America
those who loved you, Mick
sat down all at once
and just felt something
like you feel when a bird flies by
real close to you
like that, a shiver

Mickey?

You still out there?

When it rains I know you are
when at night I hear the trains
I know you are

DL

Remembering Mickey Newbury, 1940-2002


dead but for the stories Posted by Hello

All Who Pass Must Pay

http://betterdaysradio.blogspot.com/

All Who Pass Must Pay

What is it comes in the night
Pray my soul to keep
A voice of rusted iron
That will not let me sleep
Once we stood the crossroads down
Sent the devil on his way
There's a toll bridge on the highway now
All who pass must pay

One lamp creakin' in the wind
Outside Champ's Texaco
The motel in behind it
Closed up ten years ago
The windows are all broken
But it's never been torn down
Dead but for the stories
Like most things in this town

Ghosts of our grandfathers
Talk in the corner booth
Jukebox sings of trouble, Jim
And don't it tell the truth
Our little town has dwindled down
To half of what it was
Freeway blows right past it now
The world's forgotten us

The truckers get their coffee
Out on the Interstate
No one gets up early here
And nothing's open late
Shadows break the light in two
Dreams go underground
You hear a sign creak long enough
A feelin' comes around

What is it comes in the night
Pray my soul to keep
A voice of rusted iron
That will not let me sleep
Once we stood the crossroads down
The devil went his way
There's a toll bridge on the highway now
All who pass must pay

DL