Colter Wall (Outlaw Country)

This ole boy from Saskatchewan, Canada is a bullseye to a bow an arrow when it comes to telling a story in a few lines. Lines that flow through baritone chords that pull me back to the record player that my maw-ma gave me for Christmas back when a Ford was President and the radio was the prince to the music industry. When a penny could buy a dozen records from Columbia House with a sign up for mail order. My Dad got in on one of those deals once. So when I got that record player, I had a baker’s dozen of records to choose from. I reckon that one he had to buy at regular price was the last he bought from them. I loved those records.  Two of them was Prison recordings from Johnny Cash that wore many needles out. It was not the best idea for letting a seven-year-old boy listen to Cocaine Blues over and over, but it did allow a young boy to fall in love with something that probably saved his life down the road. That something is music and Colter Wall has me missing my maw-ma and that old record player, and I’m as grateful as a Zen master for his cup of tea, for the memories and his music that’s a sparking them.

 

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Bonus video 🙂

 

“We’re to blame because we let them steal,” she told him.
“Let them? We caused ‘em to steal?”
“Yes. We caused them to steal. Penny at a time. Nickel at a time. Dime. A quarter. A dollar. We were easy going. We were good-natured. We didn’t want money just for the sake of having money. We didn’t want other folks’ money If it meant they had to do without. We smiled across their counters a penny at a time. We smiled in through their cages a nickel at a time. We handed a quarter out our front door. We handing them money along the street. We signed our names to their old papers. We didn’t want money, so we didn’t steal money, and we spoiled them, we petted them, and we humored them. We let them steal from us. We knew that they were hooking us. We knew it. We knew when they jacked up their prices. We knew when they cut down on the price of our work. We knew that. We knew they were stealing. We taught them how to steal. We let them. We let them think they they could cheat us because we are just plain old common everyday people. They got the habit.”
“They really got the habit,” Tike said.
“Like dope. Like whiskey. Like tobacco. Like snuff. Like morphine or opium or old smoke of some kind. They got the regular habit of taking us for damned old silly fools.”
House of Earth Woody Guthrie”
― Woody Guthrie, House of Earth

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Butcher Babies (Heavy Metal)

butcher-babies-tour-111

 

The name, the name, the name just offends the hell out of my conditioned morality, but could the name be an indictment against the government of my beloved nation?  The music, the music, the music just mellows the hell out of me. Literally. I love this shit. Labels be damned. I read on the internet that Carl Jung said that screaming could never be musical. On many things that Mr. Jung reported, I have little to quarrel with.  On screaming being musical, I offer Butcher Babies as to my side of the disagreement. To be fair to Mr. Jung, he never got to listen to Butcher Babies.

I also read on the internet that Heavy Metal actually soothes and relaxes the listener according to scientific experiments. I love science like I love Democracy and Religion when it supports my preconceived ideas and feelings of my perspective. It is often said that the truth will make one cry, but rarely is it said that it will make you laugh and when truth pasts wailing into laughter than truth has made its aim.

Listen to the Music.

 

And yes, I adore cleavage.

 

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Smiling Dead

Where opinion rules
The sharpest chisel wins
The blood of truth drains
The spirit into the Devil’s
lake of confusion

Facts become idols
to a shivering junkie
seeking that true warm
fact filled needle.

He wanders the streets
seeking his fix
with plenty of money
and pushers to oblige

He hits Main Street
All the usual suspects there
pushing bad dope that
leaves him cold and clammy

He hits Wall Street
It’s the best looking dope
He has seen in weeks
When he cooks it
It disintegrates.

He hits the hood
The dope left him desperate,
depressed and hopeless
with no withdrawals.

He hits the suburbs
The dope felt great
but blinded him and
made him deaf

He hit the park
Lying naked, bruised and
violated he was later found
with a needle dangling from his arm.

Smiling Dead.