| "Jam Session Ecstasy" (Trumpet Blowin' Time) For LC I don't know how the song in heaven goes, but this is how it sounds here in this nightclub, I suppose: When each lean angle of his face glows; Ascetic lines tapering to chin; He heats up the mike with a fiery vocal votive, with this mystical, mysterious minor key motive; hands composed, body bent and willow thin; then he brings forth some deep utterance from within; And he sings out: Come on; let's dance on the grave of all the chances we have passed; Let's hold on till the glory cloud comes to carry us home at last; Let's dance till the final hour does chime; Let's love each other in this new latter day, trumpet blowin' time! Who knows what ritual he finally did choose, To summon forth both the spirit and the muse: This visitation from the sacred figures of Jazz and Delta Blues transforms his old man river of hair to copper and gold-plated hues; You see, he keeps this tenor sax and Nazarite vow, revealing the sacred heart of soul in the Oleander Club room now. So, he's an illuminated icon for this present vocal age who fades and rips those old blue jean chords each night upon the stage. So, come on, let's ride the riffs on blazing chariots of fire; Let's hold the notes till the glory cloud can't take us no higher; Let's ride on till the final hour does chime; Let's ride together in this new latter day, trumpet blowin' time! Now, I don't know just how far heaven's light will show, But this is the vision under the amber spotlight glow: Come to life on the bones of that battered, old upright we know; where the backup singers harmonize in the middle of the night. When the omens in the upper room finally bode all right, the front man sings out to the people seeking a sign; and there in the darkness, that song of his did shine, and there in the darkness, that song of his did shine. So, come on, let's sing a song in love's fiery furnace tonight; Let's repeat the chorus till dawn and we'll both come out all right; Let's sing on till the final hour does chime; Let's live together in this new latter day, trumpet blowin' time! 10/2004 |
| "Oleander Club Blues" It starts off really, really slow, like a Jazz funeral march with a second-line in tow. One fatal French Quarter crescent moon, in the Oleander Club downstairs room; it came to life on the bones of a battered old upright that's whitewashed like a tomb. Now, there's a vigil to hold and a candle to light; just remember, take the repeats at the final chorus tonight. Everybody knows, I ain't no Queen of Comus; I don't sit high above the crowd. To tell the truth, just between the two of us, sometimes I can be way too loud. I sing back up for the bad and broken streets, and once or twice I fell asleep between the front man's sheets. Let me tell you how fine he once was: That man was better than any Egyptian prince, better than anyone I ever knew before that time or since. Now, you can't tell me it wasn't a sign when the Magazine Street Messiah came in from the soup kitchen line to prophesy latter day words of love and death. His face belongs to some crumpled-up roadmap, and his eyes are way too old for mine; eyes too old for life, too old for time. The Magazine Street Messiah cried out, "Repent, repent!" Well, I'm not a gypsy or even a voodoo queen, but I can read that not-so-secret sign. There were cigarette butts on my balcony, and God knows they weren't mine. You see, my baby, this peculiar thing I do understand: The ones I found aren't even your brand. "The end is near, the end is near!" The Magazine Street Messiah cried out, "The end is near!" So, here's to all of the misfit toys that get lost and thrown away, Story goes they wind up on this little French Quarter island, at least that's what the saxophone player used to say. Just so you know, just so you understand, some prayers are better left unanswered. Maybe, just maybe that's why he died on Ash Wednesday. "It's later than you think; it's later than you think!" The Magazine Street Messiah was right; it's later than I think. 9/2004 |
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| “End of the Road Blues”
(Life at Angola ) For the Crew Did you ever stop to count the cost? Some people say, spend a half-life in Angola, The whole thing is lost; I can’t really say, and I don’t really know Just how far that Old Man River of pain and sorrow flows But let me tell you ‘bout the life one man knows: Now, listen to me; you can’t get no further than the end of the road, And when you stop here, there ain’t no place else to go; ‘Cause hope gives out at the end of Highway 66 Where the Mississippi hides The Farm made of blood and bricks. You see, the cards were dealt out on a black cat night In the Oleander Club downstairs room, Where aces and eights sat grinning in the gloom, Fate’s dark hand opened up a new tomb. He didn’t show no mercy, he didn’t repent when the last shot from that 44 was spent. You can’t go no further than the end of the line And when you end up here, it ain’t no easy time; ‘Cause the clock stops at the end of Highway 66, Where the Mississippi hides The Farm made of blood and bricks. I never knew him before he traveled to that dark place, But you can see where the shadow of death lingers upon his face If you look into his eyes you can read How a knife in hands of time will cause a man to bleed. After years, he’s locked deep inside his own mind ‘Cause he knows that the grave is the only reprieve he will find. One shuffle, and life’s deck rearranges, What death don’t take that place sure changes. Will he ever find peace inside those walls, I really can’t say. But maybe he’ll find mercy on the Final Judgment Day, Maybe he’ll find mercy on the Final Judgment Day. 2/11/2005 |
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| "Bottle Slide Blues
" (Lilith in the Night) Woman done broke my bottle slide, Woman done broke my heart, She’s the worst kind of bad news Right from the very start. I should’a run, I should’a run fast, On that bad luck night when she first crossed my path; I should’a known that woman would make me a bad past. Listen to me; I missed all the signs, I missed all the clues, She wore that snake charm smile just like a voodoo queen, And She whispered sweet words that she didn’t ever mean. When I saw that woman never shed a tear, When I saw she never cried, I saw that I should’a found myself someplace good to hide Cause mama brought me bad times in her green cat eyes. She walked just like a gypsy, She walked all over me, She walked on me with her gris gris shoes, Then she walked right on my bottle slide and gave me the bottle slide blues. Let me tell you, she was the taking kind; She took my Mama’s ring, and she took me for a ride. She took my friend, she took my heart, And on the last take, she took my bottle slide and broke it all apart. Woman done broke my bottle slide, Woman done broke my heart; She’s the worst kind of bad news right from the very start. 04/08/2005 |
| LIVE FROM THE OLEANDER CLUB |