Category: Music

Dadgad & Zimmerman

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Photo by Vash Project on Pexels.com

Dadgad & Zimmerman

I must be getting old,
But this doesn’t feel so much fun anymore.
Lis’ning to a pub band this weekend,
And suddenly the music’s not my friend.
The racket left me cold –
It wasn’t they were bad, as such, for sure…
But the PA was too loud – now there’s a phrase
That I never thought I’d utter all my days…!
They looked so middle-aged,
And so much less rock-&-roll as hokey-cokey.
So bald and fat and wheezy, just like me,
As they played their wall-of-sludge cacophony.
For all the singer raged,
His voice was lost within the karaoke –
I hate to say, but cranked up to eleven,
How they felt so out-of-place in rural Devon.
It’s me, though, truth be told –
My hearing just can’t tease their notes apart.
Though what has left me breathless ain’t the loud,
But the unrelenting crushing of the crowd.
I must be getting old,
If I’m waiting for the interval to start…
So sad and sobering a Sunday a outing
Now…where are all those clouds that need a shouting…?

I Need Some Air

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…pretty much sums up AI, really…

        I Need Some Air

At first, I was dumbfounded by the rush,
And squeezed within the crush,
And now I think I’ve danced myself to hush –
My chords aren’t made of steel.

I just don’t have the breath to tell you,
Panting, how I feel –
I just ain’t got the means to yell,
Or roar, or even squeal.

I just don’t have the the vocal chops,
Or the power in my burning lung.
I can’t go shrieking from the rooftops
Like I did when I was young.

I cannot thrust my diaphragm,
To serve as my pneumatic ram.
I’m far too dizzy, too deflated,
Far too hyperventilated –
Strung-out, wrung-out,
Lost my shout,
And my words have got no clout upon my tongue.

I haven’t got the oxygen
To sing the chorus yet agen,
I guess it’s time to shut up when
My whistle just ain’t whistling.

But let me mumble, let me rasp,
In one more whispered, breathy gasp,
Before the words slip from my grasp:
Thank you all for lis’ning.

West Country & Western

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Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

West Country & Western

I was born where the Avon bends,
The Tamar darts and the Dart up-ends,
In a parrick you might miss at night,
Where the Otter and the Parrett fight.

I was born where the stones stand-up,
When my Pa taught me to long-man up,
To roll my arrs and burr my talk,
And fly my mane like a horse of chalk.

You might-be even hear the fiddle-folk
Beneath the sunset glowing cliffs of red –
You may just hear the bleat and croak
From herds of raw-wools singing low,
And spinning-out their thread.
From this side of the Barrow,
So it’s said,
Tomorrow’s days ahead.

So come and take a trip with me
Upon the Highway 303,
The outer-limits of outdoors
Await between the downs and moors.

It’s said we don’t like strangers round these parts –
By grockles, I’ll be bound…
Don’t fret, we hamlet folk won’t fuss,
Cause who could be more strange than us?

You might-be even hear a banjo twang
Beneath the moonraked moonlight, down our way.
You may just hear a lively gang
Of applejacks upon Midsummer night,
If you should stray.
From this side of the Severn,
So they say,
All Heaven comes to play.

The Canon of Carols

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The Canon of Carols

We’ve sung these songs before,
These Silent Nights, these Gaudetes –
We’ll sing these songs for evermore, I’m sure,
All Christmas Days –
Pious in their message,
Dressed in angels at the manger –
And how familiar they are,
And not a one a stranger.

But in a thousand years from now,
Shall these songs still be heard ?
You have my word…

But other songs exist,
Like Deck The Halls, like Jingle Bells,
That long were added to our list,
Persisting each Nowell.
Joyful in their scoring,
While ignoring Mary’s son –
And how familiar they are,
When sung by ev’ryone.

But in a thousand years from now,
Shall these still stop the show ?
I think we know…

And ev’ry year come songs,
These All I Wants, these Fairytales –
But will they still be sung-along so strong,
Or will they fail ?
Hopeful in their jingle,
Mingling underneath the tree –
But how familiar they are,
We’ll have to wait and see.

So in a thousand years from now,
Shall we remember still ?
I think we will…

The Lantern Carol

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I asked AI for impressionistic carollers, but they just look blotchy…

The Lantern Carol

There may have been snow,
There were surely scarves,
As they stood on the corner
Beneath the stars.
They may have had sheets,
But they knew the words –
And the harmonies
That they sang in thirds.
And we hurried on by,
But we heard their songs –
The old familiar
Sing-it-alongs.
In a pool of light,
They played their role –
Under the lantern
Hung on a pole.

And their breath was hung
With the notes they sung,
As a frosty white,
By the lantern’s swaying light.

There may have been snow,
There were surely mitts,
As they stood on the corner
Singing the Ritz.
They may have had sheets,
But they knew the text,
And no hesitation
On which comes next.
And we hurried on by,
But we heard their cheer –
The old familiar
End-of-the-year.
In a pool of light,
Their heart and soul –
Under the lantern
Hung on a pole.

And their breath was warm
With the notes they form,
In the inky night
By the lantern’s only light.

The Drum Shop

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Photo by Kevin Kong on Pexels.com

The Drum Shop

A chamber filled with cylinders of air beneath the skins,
A cavern dedicated to the art of beating things,
A desert for the trumpets, and a wilderness for strings,
But oh, this is a heaven for the drums !

Where cymbals tsk-tsk-tsk all day,
And tambourines are shake-a-shake,
And castanets come out to play,
With wood-blocks in their wake.

Congas and tom-toms and bongos in pairs,
In a four-four and three-four and quick-march in double-time,
Bass drums and kettles and tablas and snares,
To the beat of the bodhran and ting of the wind-chime.

And oh, the sticks and hammers and brushes !
So many way to make a bang !
To shake-up the silences, heat-up the hushes,
With stirrings of sturm-und-drang !

So ring-out those cow-bells, and anvils and cannons, and gongs,
And all that belong in here –
And if you have nothing, then play with your stomps and your claps,
And your finger-snaps, my dear !

From sleigh-bells to maracas, via triangles and dhols,
In a chamber filled with shimmers and alive with clangs and tolls –
It’s a cavern to percussion, and to nothing but percussion,
And yet home to ev’ry drum that swings and rolls.

Jethro’s Toll

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Photo by Dilara /uygunadimdoga on Pexels.com

Jethro’s Toll

(In reply to Farm On The Freeway)

I’m not a fan of the big road pushing through the valley floor –
It should have been a high-speed rail line.
But just what have you got against a chip-set factory ?
And the jobs that get to work while you just whine.
I guess the loss of green and habitat’s a shame, for sure,
But your farm was pretty monocultured too –
The world needs fewer humans, as I hope you would agree,
And a lot less of consumption, making-do.
We haven’t all got daddies leaving farms to us, and more,
No, we many have us very little leeway.
So take your million-dollars and your nimby don’t-tax-me –
Cos this ain’t your farm no more – now it’s our freeway.

Once Upon a Tune

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Once Upon a Tune

Sing another story-song,
About a love gone wrong, perhaps,
Or unrequited longings long,
Forever under wraps.

Rag-to-riches, rites of passage,
Tell your message verse-by-verse –
From the wreckage of a savage love
Or maybe witch’s curse.

Country, folk, and western,
Aren’t the only storytellers –
From Ancient Rome to Preston,
Were the yarns of many fellers.

There’s always time for stories,
Don’t be sorry for the tale –
There’s life in allegories,
And there’s drama in the mail.

Emotions aren’t the only theme –
With which to team a tune.
We sometimes need to daydream
On a lonely afternoon.

So play another story-song
To singalong, my friend –
From a start that’s low and strong,
To a climax at the end.

Closing Number

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Closing Number

The curtain’s hanging over us,
This is our final scene.
We hope our lines are close enough
And energies still keen.
We’ve just the time for one last turn
Before we take our bows –
For any encores that we earn,
And management allows.

The future’s big in front of us,
It starts tomorrow-dawn,
And so, for all we grunt and cuss,
Our brand-new lives are born.
We’ve barely time to learn our parts
Before we take our chance,
And who knows where the future charts ?
It’s one long song-and-dance.

Jingle-Worms

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Jingle-Worms

I know all year we’ve been skipping them, skipping them,
Whenever they shuffled into play –
But now it’s December, and the whole world’s sipping them,
And we’ve no chance to slip away.
I guess it’s time to be shipping them, tripping them,
Their timing is no longer quite so wrong –
For now it’s December, and the whole world’s gripping them
So best to simply shrug and sing their song.
Let the tunes be ripping
And the sentiment be dripping
As we flipping-well must belt another verse.
We’ve spent all year so chippy
With the luxury of nipping them,
But now we must embrace their joyful curse.
Altogether now !
Sing a song of sleighbells,
Tinkle tinkle,
In the snow –
When the choirboys sing high
Then the baritones sing low.
But we’ll meet-up in the middle.
Where the fast shall meet the slow –
And we’ll sing it all again,
All the month – it’s all we know.
Ho ho ho.