We'll Have to Bring Our Own Tunes to the Thanksgiving Day Parade

I'm just about to sit down for dinner, but I wanted to share a Thaksgiving song you might not have heard before: "Thanksgiving Day Parade," by Dan Bern. It's a dreamlike, slacker thanksgiving, but it gives me a warm feeling whenever I hear it.



Some sample lyrics:

And Michelangelo finally came down
After four years on the ceiling
He said he'd lost his funding
And the paint had started peeling
And he told us that his patron
His Holiness, the Pope
Was demanding productivity
With which our friend just couldn't cope
And he rode off on his skateboard
With his brushes and his blade
Muttering something 'bout some food
And the Thanksgiving Day Parade

I like that. You've suffered some setbacks, but dammit, pick yourself up. It's Thanksgiving, for chrissakes.

Here's another verse:

And I love whoever's next to me
I love them so, so much
They let me lean against them
Like a beautiful crutch

Man, I've been there. There's nothing like the gratitude of the intoxicated.

And everyone should come up
On the stage and grab the mike
And tell us one by one
Who they are and what they like.

This is one of the bits that I absolutely love about this song; everyone, take a minute on stage. Tell us a little bit about yourself. We're glad you're here.

And the babies are the only ones
To have lately gotten laid
And I'm feeling young and eager
For the Thanksgiving Day Parade

And this just cracks me up -- it's a weird little play on words, and it carries over to two more lines that I read as a strange mix of childlike wonder and adult anticipation as the parade gets closer.

Now, I really like this version (performed by Bern with Moxy Fruvous), but there's one problem: My favorite verse was cut, and because of it, the friggin' parade never arrives. I have a feeling they were cut for time during the concert. On the album, the song builds and builds and builds until you get to a long string of names, everyone playing an instrument. It's an amazing climax. You can hear it in another performance here (or on the album New American Language), but here's how it goes, wordwise. I get the feeling Bern is just picking out all his friends, and giving them all something to do. And that kind of friendship, that vast community of people, is what I'm so thankful for. So here it is, the unsung verse:

And somewhere in the distance
An orchestra shows its face
With Natalie on the oboe
Ty on double bass
John plays the viola
Slik the tenor sax
James he blows harmonica
In vanilla skin-tight slacks
Hugo oozes alto sax
Ivory the trombone
Masuda squawks the trumpet
Andre xylophone
Ron he shreds the violin
In a green Italian suit
Mike talks on the telephone
On a tape with an endless loop
Geoff he blows the clarinet
With an old-time rockin' feel
Charlie dings the triangle
Dave the glockenspiel
Chris puffs on the tuba
H a big bass drum
Alfonso throbs the cello
Like he would a woman, with his thumb
And high up on the podium
In tails with his baton poised
Banksy leads the orchestra
In a glorious, awful noise
And on a float of dripping oil paint
The orchestra, it played
Kissing the whole universe
In the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Rob

Looking Back to Two Days Ahead

Now that it's almost Thanksgiving Day... I thought I'd set the WABAC machine to go back eighteen months to a post I wrote about Graham Parker's song, "Almost Thanksgiving Day."



You get the world that you make, they say.

Rob

I take delight in the juice of the barley

So a few days ago my coworkers and I were in a self-styled "Irish" pub in New York, listening to standard-issue bar rock, when a song came over the speakers that I realized was the first legitimately Irish tune I'd heard in the place. I couldn't place the melody for a few days (It was modern instrumentation, made into pretty much just another rock song), but I finally realized it was the traditional tune "Whiskey in the Jar."

I've got a couple copies of the song in my collection; the one I've listened to most was recorded by Roger McGuinn and Tommy Makem. But here's a traditional version performed by the Dubliners.



Of course, that's not the first version I found online. That's this more modern version by Metallica, proving that the song still entertains. This version is much harder-driving, and I like it quite a bit. (The video is heavy-metal drunken-girl-party, complete with some pixelated toplessness and a slo-mo pillowfight for one scene. This might either enhance or detract from your viewing experience, but the song's worth a listen either way.)



Some of the lyrics have changed (the girl in the song is Jenny, traditionally -- but Metallica goes with Molly, and I think the Thin Lizzy arrangement they modeled their song on goes with Molly too), and in one instance, I like Metallica's (and Thin Lizzy's) quite a bit. The original ends with:

Now some men take delight in the drinking and the roving,
But others take delight in the gambling and the smoking.
But I take delight in the juice of the barley,
And courting pretty fair maids in the morning bright and early

Which is cool, and on-topic. But I can't help liking:

Now some men like the fishin', but some men like the fowlin'
Some men like to hear, to hear the cannonballs a-roarin'
But me, I like sleepin', `specially in my Molly's chamber
But here I am in prison, here I am with a ball and chain, yeah

(Huntin', fishin', fightin' and sleepin'? It's like I never left work.)

An aside: Years ago, we were at a friend's wedding reception--a dry one because it was held in the community area of a church. And yet, there was dancing, and in my experience dance floors rarely reach capacity without a little help from John Barleycorn. So, having brought a bottle with us (but not into the church), we would ever so often sneak out for a nip, singing, "whack for the daddy-o, there's whiskey in the car."



Anyway, whatever the lyrics, I'm impressed that the song still entertains so many different audiences.

Got another opportunity to hear it this weekend at the Phoenixville Celtic Street Fair with friends Jay & Nicole. (Jay took the picture of the pipers I've posted here.) The Bogside Rogues played a terrific, energetic version of it (their whole set was a lot of fun), and I got to drink some Smithwicks as well. Nothing wrong with that.

Rob

If Bad Was a Boot

So, Rob, why did all those children creep you out the other day?

Well, imaginary interviewer, I hadn’t really put it together until now, but I think it might have to do with a little song I'd been listening to by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds called “The Curse of Millhaven,” about a 13-year-old precious little serial killer. I’m not going to reproduce all the lyrics here (you can probably hear the song on Seeqpod), but here’s how she’s introduced:

My name is Loretta, but I prefer Lottie
I’m closing in on my thirteenth year
And if you think you've ever seen a pair of eyes more green
Then you sure didn’t see 'em 'round here
My hair is yellow and I’m always a-combing
La la la la La la la lie
Mama often told me we all got to die

You must have heard about The Curse Of Millhaven
How last Christmas Bill Blakey’s little boy didn’t come home
They found him the next week down in One Mile Creek
With his head bashed in and his pockets full of stones
You can just imagine all the wailing and moaning
La la la la La la la lie
Even little Bill Blakey’s boy, he had to die

And there’s more and more, as a rash of killings shocks the town, until finally:

Then, in a cruel twist of fate, old Mrs Colgate
Was stabbed but the job was not complete
The last thing she said before the cops pronounced her dead
Was, “My killer is Loretta and she lives across the street!”
Twenty cops burst through my door without even phoning
La la la la La la la lie
The young ones, the old ones, they all gotta die

And this may be my favorite verse:

Yes, it is I, Lottie, the Curse Of Millhaven
I’ve struck horror in the heart of this town
Like my eyes ain’t green and my hair ain’t yellow
It’s more like the other way around
I got a pretty little mouth underneath all the foaming
La la la la La la la lie
Sooner or later, we all gotta die

I love Lottie’s depiction of herself as a monster whose true countenance no one can see. She spits “my eyes ain't green, and my hair ain’t yella.” I also like this next bit, where she shows a little false regret before pulling the rug out again:

Since I was no bigger than a weevil they’ve been saying I was evil
That if bad was a boot, then I’d fit it
Oh I’m a wicked young lady, but I’ve been trying hard lately
Oh, fuck it! I’m a monster, I admit it!

Now that’s venom.

So Lottie confesses to the murders that she’s charged with, and many, many (many!) more. It’s a catalog of malice, and she’s eventually committed to an asylum.

Now I got shrinks that will not rest with their endless Rorschach tests
I keep telling them I know they’re out to get me
They ask me if I feel remorse and I answer, “Why of course!
There is so much more I could have done if they’d let me!”

I really love the song–it’s horrible and terrifying on one level, propelling the listener from one horror to the next (and even one crime she didn’t commit, instead perpetrated by “two junior-high-school psychos: Stinky Bohoun and his friend with the pumpkin-sized head”). Yet it has a level of deep-black humor to it as well—both in Lottie’s unrelenting spite, and just the idea of 39-year-old Nick Cave singing for a 12-year old girl. Like he's a viper in her belly, the demon driving her to do these things.

Anyway: Take a few listens to the song, and then suddenly find yourself surrounded by unfamiliar children. Surely, one of them has a knife—but which one?

Rob

Tongue-tied and Twisted

Recently in the Comics Cave, we'd been talking about Blender's list of the 40 Worst Lyricists in Rock. The list is tremendously subjective, and as at least one of us pointed out, treats lyrics like poetry rather than part of a musical whole. What works when sung often lies flat on paper.

A good example of the subjectivity of "good" and "bad" lyrics. In his Secret Broadcast Cave, my friend Don just flashed back to Joe Jackson's "Breaking Us In Two." (With a video and everything; check it out.) I think Jackson is an amazing lyricist. At one point, describing the break-up, he writes

You don't do the things that I do
You wanna do things I can't do

Now, it'd be easy to tear those lyrics apart for being vague and inarticulate--hell, for rhyming "do" with "do". But as much as I love the whole song, it's these two lines that hit me the hardest. They're very plain, very bare. And in saying almost nothing specific, they really say it all.

Context isn't everything, but everything is context.

Rob

Easter Turkey with Graham Parker

For some reason, for the past two years I’ve found myself listening to Graham Parker’s “Almost Thanksgiving Day” as Easter approaches. The song curdles with middle-aged discontent – just the sort of thing to hear as fall starts giving way to winter. So why do I find it so compelling in springtime?

Full steam ahead, come what may
You get the world that you make, they say
Chop up the wood and bale hay
Now that it’s almost Thanksgiving Day

The kids come and go with their things
We sit and polish our wedding rings
They forecast snow on the way
Just in time for Thanksgiving Day

The song is permeated with a feeling of stasis, oppressive and inevitable. Nothing’s moving here but the kids… and the oncoming snow will only serve to muffle everything and slow it down even further.

Out on the street some fool crashed
Drinking port wine and sour mash
That’s one man who can say
“No thanks, Thanksgiving Day.”

Then again, here’s a guy who hasn’t stopped moving. And he’s throwing up in the street. There are things to be said for being a homebody.

I’m bone weary, I’m bone-tired
The wood-stove’s last spark just expired
Dawn’s about one hour away
And it’s almost Thanksgiving Day.

The song ends on an almost hopeful note. The long night is nearly over, but Parker’s energy is waning with the stove’s heat. It appeals to the insomniac in me. Thanksgiving Day doesn’t seem to be about thanks, as Parker sings it here – in this last verse, it speaks to me about renewal. “Thanks for getting me through this,” it seems to imply. “Let’s take a deep breath before starting over.”

So maybe there’s a reason I listen to it in spring after all.

Rob

In Anticipation of an Anniversary

I’m waiting for the planes to tumble
Waiting for the skies to fall
I’m waiting for the cities to crumble
I’m waiting till I see you crawl

I was looking around for a new set of lines to put atop the blog, and found these. I’ve been listening to this song – Blackie and the Rodeo Kings’ recording of John Martyn’s “Don’t Want To Know” – and it consistently gives me chills. It’s a wonderful song, and if I quote the chorus, you’ll probably recognize it:

I don’t want to know about evil
I only want to know ’bout love

It’s really beautiful, almost like a prayer to me. It reminds me that there’s a stronger force out there than fear, but warns that fear itself makes it hard to look away.

Sometimes it gets so hard to listen
Hard for us to use our eyes
All around the cold is glistening
Making sure it keeps us hypnotized

It turns out that the song was written and first recorded by John Martyn in 1973. He had no idea the images that first verse would conjure 28 years down the road. (Incidentally, from what I can tell online, the lyrics are “waiting for the plains to tumble,” not planes.) It’s been recorded by quite a few people, including Richie Havens, Dr. John, and Beth Orton. The first time I heard it, I felt like I recognized it. The song sticks with you.

I don’t want to know one thing about evil
I only want to know ’bout love

If only.

Rob