1. |
I've missed a lot of fun
02:42
|
|||
|
The Hag has cashed in but the working man’s alive
It crawls up my skin when good people have to die
Johnny Cash he left the show when I was ‘bout fifteen
But it didn’t hurt me all that much, I’m still acting mean
My country music heroes get killed off one by one
Clearly I’s born too late, I’ve missed a lot of fun
The possum did not turn up to his final show
But he was no show Jones, so that was normal I suppose
Conway Twitty, without a warning, he just took that death train ride
Some 30 odd years later he was featured in family guy
My country music heroes get killed off one by one
Clearly I’s born too late, I’ve missed a lot of fun
Patsy Cline, she was divine, as were Tammy Wynette
She proudly sang Stand by your man, but you know, in fact
That was all just irony, she’s trying to fit the frame
of the game in the olden days of Nashville, USA
My country music heroes have been killed off one by one
Clearly I’s born too late, I’ve missed a lot of fun
Just as I’m putting down these words into text
I cannot help but wonder who of them is gonna be next
Might it be Kristofferson, Willie Nelson or John Prine?
I just gotta see ‘em all while they’re still alive
‘cause my country music heroes get killed off one by one
Clearly I’s born too late, I’ve missed a lot of fun
|
||||
2. |
The great unkown
04:04
|
|||
|
The Mediterranean moved strangely calm
With the boats of the Arabian refugees at dawn
And the vicious pirates of the human trade
They stayed peaceful whilst their cargo was afraid
Ranya and Amaal, Abduhalla and Atefa
Said and Myrian, Fares and Saud
Were among the one’s that sailed upon the ocean
They never reached their home; got burried in the great unkown
The waves of the menacing sea raised above
their heads and their only medicine were bits of broken love.
They got imprisoned on a boat, carried by a sea,
Dividing them from their homeland and their chance of being free.
Ranya and Amaal…
The depth of the raging sea, laid silent as a grave,
As the lights of mortality was shut beneath the waves
All you in lands abroad, be weary of what will be:
The pendlum swings again, we’re told, but this time into eternity.
Ranya and Amaal…
|
||||
3. |
The fiddler Abraham Hult
04:31
|
|||
|
There’s a wild fire spreading across
the pagan lands of Helsingland
A distant mem’ry of time gone by
is burning symbols in the sand
Just like the wife of Lot
turned into salt
I know no one can play a tune
Like the fiddler Abraham Hult
I traveled through Dalecarlia
Where ancient music I did hear
Cows were moaning, hens were chirping
Young ladies singing high and clear
The sounds did echo
Like the struck of a bolt
And I know no one can play a tune
Like the fiddler Abraham Hult
I went down to the infirmary
Where many people were constrained
To their beds, with holes carved into their heads
They didn’t follow the path that Jesus led
They held on to their violins
They would’t put ‘em in no vault.
And I know no one can play a tune
Like the fiddler Abraham Hult
I see poverty and depression
Behind every single cabin door
Men lying wasted and wounded
Women nursing children upon the floor
I ain’t here to condemn
Or to put any fault
But I know no one can play a tune
Like the fiddler Abraham Hult
I’m sitting drinking coffee
In the middle of a folk music festival
There’s people laughing, trading music
Like there never has been any judgement at all
Music never dies
And life is way too short
And I know no one can play a tune
Like the fiddler Abraham Hult
|
||||
4. |
Soon to be expected
02:46
|
|||
|
I went through the mail this morning
You know the paper kind
And lying there and moaning
was something I can’t leave behind.
’twas some fatal info
sent from the government
something ’bout the Inferno
and the end of life, my friend.
Soon to be expected is a tragedy
It’s not about where and how,
But when the end will be.
These words rang in my head
As I read the brochure:
Canned food under your bed
And bottled water in your drawer.
Batteries and flashlights
And a big hole in the ground
Where you can spend your lonely nights
When humanity lies hell bound.
Soon to be…
Buzzing bees and tall trees
Provide rich nourishment
Old people with shaking knees
Walking ’long the pavement
It all seems fine at first glimpse
But the clouds above your head
Are worrisome, which you know stems
From the text that you’ve just read.
Soon to be…
|
||||
5. |
Drunken Willie McCane
04:06
|
|||
|
Let me tell you now ’bout a man who died in vain
’bout the wicked life he led, his struggle and his pain.
He knew a lot of people, he was very good with names
Making dead men’s tombstones every night and day
One day he was caught for murder, rising him to local fame,
But, hey, drunken Willie McCane ain’t the man to blame.
Sorrow went through his family like a wildfire in the hay
And ever since the verdict came it’s making them you pray
His mother’s face got old, his father’s hair got gray
His sister moved to Sweden hiding away in shame.
Today he’ll stand to trail for the people that got slain,
But hey…
One thing about McCane, he wasn’t a man of luck
Whenever there was shooting around, he was the last man to duck
Often, he got injured, but never fatally
And despite this was known to the jury, they all did agree
That he was for sure the right man to frame,
Even though drunken Willie…
A pistol duel occurred at the main street of the town,
And of course, drunken Willie McCane was the man around
Both the dueling cowboys instantly died by their shots
And due to McCane’s profession he gathered up their guts.
As the only witness the local sheriff did came
Most certain that McCane was the man to frame
The sun was sinking low when on the gallows he did stand,
Reflecting on the twenty years he had. Roamed these lands
The only thing he now did regret was his drinking of the booze
If leaving the bottle alone he wouldn’t now be hanging in a noose
In reverence to his man, you ought to remember his name
’cause drunken Willie McCane wasn’t the man to blame.
|
||||
6. |
||||
|
I went down to the Folklore Centre,
I hesitated ‘fore I decided to enter,
Inside I got a glimpse of Izzy Young.
He sat in a rocking chair,
Acting like he didn’t care;
I immediately felt I’d done something wrong.
After a while he looked at me;
I didn’t know if I were to nod or kneel,
So ‘stead I just kind of shook his hand.
He asked me what my business were
“I just wanna make myself sure
That you won’t ask me about a certain Zimmerman”
“Zimmerman?” I quoted, making a frown,
“Now, who is that son of gun?”
I laughed nervously, and scratched my cheek.
Then he noticed my guitar, and said:
“I’ve seen your type before I’m afraid,
and I’ve gotta tell ya’, you ain’t what I seek”
I said: “All I crave, Mister Young,
Is thirty-two dollars and to become
Famous, just like Joni Mitchell”.
He looked at me, kind of sly,
Laughed and said: “Oh, me oh my!
Play your song and I go wait in the kitchen”.
I played my tune, upon his request,
Doing the thing that I love best,
But Izzy had already left the room.
The rocking chair was now the only thing,
Left around to hear me sing,
I started feeling crazy as a loon.
So, I finished off with a major chord,
I figured Izzy had gotten bored,
Or clearly that was what it seemed.
‘Till finally he launched back in
all hopped up on caffeine.
T’was then I realized it was all just a dream.
On his side stood Blind Boy Grunt,
Johnny Cash, Townes van Zandt,
Ledbelly, John Prine and Bill Monroe.
I woke up all soaked in sweat;
Couldn’t get hold of my breath,
I just tried to comprehend what it was that I saw.
Though, I decided, quite fast,
That I’d better lay it to rest,
And just keep on keeping on.
The only thing I knew I had to do,
Was to put on my jacket and my walking shoes
And get my ass down to Izzy Young’s.
|
||||
7. |
Murder of crows
03:24
|
|||
|
Your vision is blurry and
Your nerves are exploding
You can almost feel
Your insanity unfolding
The more you think, the more
It feels like your head is gonna blow,
And in the distance,
There’s a murder of crows
You’re crawling in the gutters
Of angst and introversion
And beside you on the pavement
are all the ordinary persons
You cannot help but wonder
How you came to end up this low
And still in the distance,
There’s a murder of crows
You’re sleeping with one eye
Open every night
You wake up every hour
With a demon in sight
When you gaze out from the window
Into the puddles down below
You notice a reflection
Of a murder of crows
You’ve never been too fond of
the way you’ve led your life
Every step of the way
You’ve been pierced through by a knife
The thing’s you’ve heard, the thing’s you’ve
Seen have always kept you slow
And silhouetted by the moon,
is a murder of crows
You haven’t left the apartment
In a week of sun sets
Out there in the open
Lay all of your regrets
All the city’s greenery
Have turned into snow
And leaning ’gainst your window
Is a murder of crows
Your eyes have been fixed upon
A spot on your ceiling
Wide opened for hours
Without even seeing
Your body has given up,
It has not more to show
For, and at the foot of your bed
Is a murder of crows
|
||||
8. |
||||
|
Here we are again
Faced unto each other
You know I couldn’t bother
Less about your fame
You’re trying to be the best
But you know that the best ain’t better
Than what truly matters
Than what keeps you from going insane
Blistering heat of passion
Rattles this old cage
Don’t think that you are special
You’re just the same as anyone else
Here we go again
Crossing each-others border
I know you are a hoarder
Of people’s suffering
You’re trying to be polite
But in fact, you’re sanctimonious
And quite frankly, disingenuous
I have seen your eye balls swim
Here we are, yet again
The tides keep rolling in
Your mind’s still in a spin
And your tongue is cut in two
The circle is complete
You’re back to where you started
You still see yourself as a martyr
There’s no telling what you’ll do
|
||||
9. |
The ghost of Old Nick
04:36
|
|||
|
Black faces underneath the sun
Vague traces of the first-born son
Is it he up there on mount Sion,
Or is it just a mirage?
Lambs are being slaughtered, one by one
Blood’s covering the doors of every home
The myth is young, but, oh, so strong;
It may or may not be a farce
The ghost of Old Nick is nearing
People are sick and fearing
For their own lives. Death is throwing his dice
You don’t need to look twice
Diabolic symbols in the sand
Crosses upside down, mocking the damned
No one really dares to take a stand
There’s three breezes blowing down the road
Down the creek of Mountain Lake Town
The fiddler’s playing his luring sounds
All who hear him ends up being drowned
He must pay the debt he owes
The ghost of Old Nick…
The clock has stopped at three A.M.
In every home all over Helsingland
Down the street, the marching band
Is playing in a triple meter
From Mountain Lake to Jersusalem
A broken person, he did run
Crying out that he’d been summed
By the voice of Saint Peter
The ghost of Old Nick…
Bible verses are being read
Incoherent prayers are being said
Unto one another lies are being fed
Among the sheeple
The dawn is cracking one last time
Thugs are committing their last crime
Another drop of the holy wine
Is wasted in the temple.
The ghost of Old Nick…
|
||||
10. |
Heading for a fall
04:56
|
|||
|
I’ve gone from poverty to riches in my days
I’ve seen everything there is to see, and I’ve hidden it in my case
I’ve never been too satisfied with the outcome of my deeds
Mostly I’ve been petrified, listening to my heart beat
I can see the turning of the turnstile, letting people in,
Into the mystic furnace where people like to swim
Crying in the distance I can hear a lonesome call
Reaching out for anyone that might be heading for a fall
The noble men and women of high society,
Eating fancy dinners and drinking expensive tea;
All their interactions seem unnatural and stiff
There must be a tiny fraction of them who are sick of it
I can see the turning of the turnstile, letting people in,
Into the shining palace of intellectual offerings
Someone just quoted Rimbaud. It sure takes a lotta gall
To be so uncaring to whomever might be heading for a fall
Drawings made of charcoal from the 15th century
pictures you've never seen before, except from your twisted dreams,
are hanging on display somewhere In the Netherlands.
They're bound to bring you pain, regardless from where you stand
I can see the turning of the turnstile, letting people In,
Into the big museums where people live in sin
Of this you might not be aware, but you're attending Satan's ball
Every time you encounter someone who's heading for a fall
On every corner down the street, you can hear a beggar's sigh
On the buses, there's empty seats, next to someone who is high.
No one's really living. It seems to be a myth
That people here are willing to crawl out of this fiery pit
I can see the turning of the turnstile, pushing people out
Into the frozen city that's riddled with fear and doubt
My life feels like a puzzle, way too hard to solve
Brick by brick, I too, am surely heading for a fall
|
||||
11. |
Where I once was born
04:34
|
|||
|
Today’s the day they’re gonna bring me down
I’ve known it now for quite a while
The verdict came a fortnight ago
Soon in the noose my head’ll hang low.
The executioner say’s it’s ’bout 20 more
Minutes ’fore
I’ll be dangling ’bove the floor
The crowd gathers ’round wanting for a show
I’m sitting listening to their chanting grow
I hear ’em yell: hang him high!
If I had a God, she’d soon lead me towards the sky
The executioner say’s it’s ’bout 15 more
Minutes ’fore
I’ll be dangling ’bove the floor
A chilly wind sweeps across the plains
Heading for the gallows, for the chains
Where I’m strapped ’neath an old oak tree
Waiting for sweet death to fin’lly set me free.
The executioner say’s it’s ’bout 10 more
Minutes ’fore
I’ll be dangling ’bove the floor
The dying breath that soon I’ll exhale
Oh, my weary soul, let it sail
Sail away from my wrecked body ship
’From the bottom of my lungs through my cracked country lips
The executioner say’s it’s ’bout 8 more
Minutes ’fore
I’ll be dangling ’bove the floor
They told me, they said that I’d killed another man
I just cannot recall whom or when
But as a true servant of the law
I’ll accept my fate and to the burning hell I’ll go
The executioner say’s it’s ’bout 666 more
Minutes ’fore
I’ll be dangling ’bove the floor
The crowd gets wilder and the air’s burning hot
I try to keep my eyes at some forget-me-not’s
They’re growing next to the gallows where I’ll hang
I’ll sure not forget these few minutes ’til I’m dead.
The executioner say’s it’s ’bout 4 more
Minutes ’fore
I’ll be dangling ’bove the floor
I’ll give ’em my best, the people that are here
I’ll present them both anger and fear.
I’ll struggle the walk towards the stage of death,
And I’ll cry and beg for mercy as the noose reaches my neck
The executioner say’s it’s ’bout 1 more
Minute ’fore
I’ll be dangling ’bove the floor
The bane stares at me with a hollow gaze
I try to study the lines of his face.
I figure I’ve gotta get some business done
when, in hell, again I’ll get to meet this son of a gun.
The executioner pulls the lever and I fall
Into the darkness
from where I once was born
|
||||
12. |
||||
|
Something's brewing on the stove
Toss away them coffee grounds
And replace 'em with my love
I know you'd like to eat and drink
But you can't have another round,
Otherwise this ship might sink
I too, must have to clean my act
change my way of living
Ramblin' from shack to shack
I've gotta stand by my woman now.
All the love I've been giving,
I've got to double it now somehow
'cause there's a rose
Blooming on the hill
It gives me a chill
It seems so close
Yet, unreachable still
I've seen you break down and cry
But I am still awaiting
To wipe my own tears dry
Why, oh, why are my feelings bottled up?
Maybe, If I stop anticipating
the ball will finally drop
'cause there's a rose…
|
||||
If you like Jon-Olov Woxlin, you may also like:
Inspired by life in lockdown, Fuzzy Jones's new astral folk EP is sobering but playful, girded with expansive production and ample wit.
go to album
Dakota Blue Moon
by Jackson Harden
Gorgeous acoustic Americana from North Carolina, stripped-back and sublime.
go to album
Collaborating remotely with 12 songwriters from all over the world, Kim Edgar emerged with a work of striking art pop.
go to album
THAT PASSED
by Patrick Regan Band
This collection of '90s work from folkie Patrick Regan and friends will appeal to fans of Fairport Convention and Pentangle.
go to album
Caught Up On A Feeling
by Veronica Stanton
Stunningly beautiful orchestral folk songs with just a hint of country, delivered with heart-on-sleeve immediacy.
go to album
The latest album by Phill Reynolds, a project of Italian singer Silva Martino Cantele, takes listeners on an Americana-fueled musical ride.
go to album
A vibrant vision of "Central Americana" from the Costa Rica-based artist, blending heartland devotionals with playful Tropicália grooves.
go to album
