Music and Meatballs
stories behind the songs...
Mangia
“Mangia, Mangia”, grandma said “Alfred don’t touch those.”, said mom, ‘They’re for dinner.” “Let him eat. Mangia.”. I looked up. I could see the big white bowl sitting on top of the big white washing machine. At 4 years old I was just under 3 feet tall. To the then mini me, the bowl on top of the tall washing machine was about a foot above my head, almost in the clouds. But it was what was in that bowl that got me on the climb. The Mangia Mangia bowl. Hot greasy brown heaven. Meatballs. I reached up. Not a sound in the kitchen. I could feel the eyes of grandma and mom watching. Guiding me toward my destiny. My touch was electric and firm as I stretched and gripped the golden globe of goodness from the top of the pile. I didn’t realize it then, but an angelic sound filled the room. I guess the heavens opened. I could hear music. Could it be? Music and Meatballs. I am not a cowboy. Born and raised in Brooklyn, the only horse I ever rode is under the hood of my car (see my song Cowboy In My Mind). The songs that I write sound country because the melodies are all basically three chords played on the guitar in the first position. The strumming on these home frets of 1,2 and 3 are found in all county and folk tunes. When it appear in a simple country song these chords are referred to as Cowboy chords.
Washington
Street
When I lived in Muskegon Michigan, I shared a small apartment with a woman that I had met while volunteering at the local food coop. She had a spare room and invited me to move in with her and split the rent. Her name was Karen. The place was great. Just what I was looking for at the time. Very cheap and it would have been close to work if I would have had a job. Which I didn’t. We shared a bathroom that I had to get to by going through her bedroom. When her boyfriend Norm slept over, she locked her door. I think it was Norm’s idea. I’m still convinced that he did this to torture me. By the time I moved out and got my own place Norm and I weren’t speaking to each other. But that is another story. So, If I had to pee in the middle of the night, I was in trouble. I was forbidden to knock and had to hold it until morning or until they woke up. Sometimes if I really did have to go and couldn’t hold it, I would resort to a trick that I used when I was living in the truck. I would pee in a beer bottle. It's cold here on Washington Street. I’ve got no money and nothing to eat. I’m waiting on your telephone call. Wondering how I wound up in this mess at all. Well, the rent is due today. I’ve got no job, so I’ve got no pay. No smoke to feed my head. And the only peace I could find is with you in bed. Even though I was far from being destitute, my attitude was very grim. I moped around very depressed all the time especially when I saw things that other people had and that I did not. One day while walking down the main street in Grand Rapids I passed the newly built Grand Hotel. Looking in the windows at its sumptuous shiny lobby and elegant upscale restaurant I felt that I had hit rock bottom. Sitting in their fancy restaurant, smoking their fat cigars while I stand outside getting wet in the rain. Hoping that the day will come when you and I will be the ones to show them that underneath these stars we’re all the same. I didn’t realize at the time when I wrote this song that the title Washington Street was a perfect title. Every town has a Washington Street. Wherever I perform this song from towns to cities to back wood campfire sing-a-longs, I can see the audience nod their heads up and down with affirmation when I mention Washington Street. Listeners believed that I wrote this song about their town and about their street down the block. Maybe in some ways I did. Sandy has always been my life saver. She was and still is the person I turn to when I’m either treading water or going down for the count. So, let’s not bore us and get to the chorus which begins very very softly. Building from almost a whisper the volume steadily increases to bring home the point of the last line. If I have you then nothing else matters. This sentiment is heard in many many love songs. A cliché? Possibly. Is it true in Washington Street? Definitely. So, darling bring it on over. These words are plain and clear. So, darling bring it on over. And I won’t worry about what’s out there.
Do What You Want To Do
Heartbreak is to songwriting is like Doris Day is to dating Rock Hudson. It’s easy to get to first base but forget about home plate. No matter who you are, if you’re human you’ve been there emotionally in some way. We are social animals. We are all wired to form connections. Even if you’re the kind of person who can’t stand people, pets, plants, insects and most other things on this planet I guarantee you that you still love at least one thing that you would be brokenhearted about if it were gone. It’s probably your phone. Love is a tricky thing. It comes and goes. Sometimes you command it to leave and at other times it just quietly walks out the door without turning around to say goodbye. Either way, for good or for bad, you are a different person after love cuts into you. It leaves a mark. Not something that you can always see but it’s there underneath your skin. Love is the red in your blood. Do What You Want to Do (originally titled Follow Your heart) is a song that I wrote with the idea that I would use my nephew’s recent romantic breakup as inspiration. I didn’t realize at the time that when I wrote this song that this song wasn’t really about him at all. It was about me. Yes, my blood was talking. The lyrics contained all the characters of an off Broadway play with a common plot that circles around the dissolution of fidelity. Phrases like, “I was on the outside looking in”. The Sneak. “You were on the inside kissing him.” The Cheater. “Not going listen to what you say.” Deny, Deny, Deny . “You don’t know anyway.” The Liar. “You were always trying to tell me what I think”. The Know it All . With all these actors collaborating on the stage the drama progresses to its inevitable conclusion. An acceptance of the tragedy that has befallen our hero. “How come I still feel like I need a drink”. Yesterday when I laid down for one of my famous afternoon naps, I tried thinking of an angle for this story. Slowly falling asleep, my thoughts drifted back to memories of my college days. There she was, my girlfriend Mary. Her soft hair was on my lap, a wet smile was on her lips, and underneath her skin, was her love. The reddest of blood.
Michigan Picker
The clock was ticking. I waited till the last minute as usual. Why do I always do this to myself. Who needs the stress? But this time it was bad. The date was September 10th , Sandy’s birthday. The day was almost over and If I didn’t do something quick there would be no excuse that would get me out of this big trouble. The time was 5 pm and I still didn’t have a present for her. My goose was cooked. We had just spent a lovely day at the beach. Warm weather, cool surf and a tasty dinner had us in a mellow mood. Even though we were quite relaxed there was an uneasy tension in the air. When was I going to give her her birthday present? I had nada. My mind descended into a catatonic trance. How could I be so insensitive to the woman who defined joy, home and love of my life. Sandy could do it all. She is a great cook who could whip a gourmet meal at the drop of a hat. Her sewing and knitting were off the hook. She made me a blue wool shirt while we were still dating. She loves people and pets. I was so lucky to meet her on that cool California night when she decided to pick me. She’s my little Michigan picker. Wait a minute, did I just say Michigan picker? Yes, my little Michigan picker. That would make a great title for a song. Let me write that down. So, I did, and BAM, the rest is history Under the gun I peeled off this song in less than 15 minutes. I guess you could say that it basically wrote itself. I took all those traits that I loved and admired about Sandy and just straight out wrote them down. A pretty easy task so to speak due to the fact that I didn’t have to make anything up. No imagination necessary Grabbing my mandolin and two beach chairs I invited Sandy to sit out on the beach with me to watch the sunset . Appraising me skeptically, and knowing something was up, she still trustingly followed. We set up our chairs near the water. That’s where she likes to sit best. I picked up my mandolin and began to strum. Plucking the first few chords, scratchily at first, I sang the first line.” My little Michigan picker sure can play.” Viola! I wrote a song about Sandy and for Sandy. Sandy’s birthday present! My little Michigan Picker sure can play. Rock and roll in the nighttime and bluegrass in the day.
Butter Mill
Are there topics that are off limits to write about? Should certain concepts or actions be shuttered, censored, and locked behind a closed door in our minds? A door that even the human imagination is not privy to the key. We all know what lurks in that dark room where the wise dare not to shine a light and the fool crouches at the key hole. Hate, abuse, war, humiliation all hiding under the couch in that dark room. Occasionally one of these unmentionable things crawls out from under the couch and lumbers around in the dark. The first place it walks to is the door. Attracted by the light of the keyhole it crouches down and looks out into the lighted room of our acceptable thoughts. And if its lucky and its timing is exactly right it will stare its bloody eye into the wide-open eye of a fool on the other side looking back. It was that fool who wrote this song. Buttermill is not a word. Look it up. You won’t find it in the dictionary. I was thinking of a butter churn when I came up with this title. You know that device that’s a narrow wooden bucket with a broom stick sticking out of the top. You pour milk into the bucket and then grab the stick and pump it up and down. Evidentially all this pumping turns the milk into cream and then to butter? I’ve never actually ever used one per say and I’m not sure if my description is entirety accurate, but I am sure of one thing. You grab the stick, and you jerk it up and down. Incest is not a topic that I am naturally drawn to right about. I can’t draw any facts from my personal experience. But being the fool at the keyhole, incest was looking out at me one day at the same time I decided to look in. The sight fascinated me. I began imagining what it would be like to be in a scene that all consider unhealthy. My mind wandered to the deep south. A rustic log cabin next to a cotton field on an adjacent field next to the manicured lawn of the plantation house. Wisteria and Spanish moss draped the plantation mansion. The big house shining in the sunlight while dry brown nettles and Saint John wort weed choked the dirty log cabin yard. I could hear my momma calling out to me. “What you gonna do that for boy.” I wasn’t listening. I just walked into the house, opened the refrigerator door, and poured myself a cold glass of buttermilk. She went walking. I went following. Momma went calling. None of these lines sound that unusual. And it is true that when I perform this song nobody gives it a second thought. It’s that rare listener that catches that there is something that is just not right about this story. If they are paying attention when I sing the line, you know your sister ain’t no toy. Are there topics that are off limits to write songs about? I would say yes only because those topics would not necessarily make good songs. Is Buttermill a good song? That would be your opinion to decide. I like it. It’s easy to play in the Key of E as a blues shuffle. The tempo is between 126-172 bpm and has a full stop after the line momma said what you gonna do that for boy. I often wander late at night past that locked door next to my bedroom. Sometimes before going to sleep, I creep out of my sheets and crouch down in front of the keyhole of this locked door. I dare myself to peek in. And when I do, and some unmentionable creature is looking out, the creature sees a fool looking back.
Your Eyes Your Lips Your Smile
I wrote this song after stalking someone on the internet. She’s a girl who used to live in Jersey City. Sometimes I would see her walking around downtown, shopping I’d guess or maybe just out to get some fresh air. Not that unusual of an activity except for one thing. She would be wearing a white Tutu. You know that type of short, ruffled skirt that Ballerinas wear. At other times she would be costumed totally in black leather from head to toe just like John Travolta’s love interest, Sandy, in the movie Grease. Sandy was played in the movie by Olivia Newton John. Not to be confused with my real-life Sandy who we will get to later. Honestly, I have to admit that she was not a random total stranger although we have never met. She was a singer songwriter trying to make it on the local club scene for a time here in New Jersey and New York. I became aware of her from her “Reels” on Facebook and Instagram. She enjoyed a short-lived popularity in these videos as some would say because she gave, “Good Face”. A very good face. The songs not so good. Sometimes a good song title is like a good face. It is enough to inspire a listen to the song. “Your Eyes Your Lips Your Smile” was one of these Good Face titles. The song in my opinion is also not too bad. My real life Sandy hates it. Did you ever do something where you felt embarrassed doing it, but you do it anyway. Writing this song was one of those times for me. After I penned the lyric, “Your eyes, your lips your smile makes me forget my gold wedding band for a while.”, an imaginary ghost named Guilt began following me around. I could feel its grey shadow looking over my shoulder every time I put the pencil to paper. The smell of Guilt waffled through the air like burnt toast when sitting at the kitchen table and writing lines like, “You had too many lessons underneath that white dress…”. Turning out the lights at bedtime I could hear the muffled steps of Guilt pacing in the living room, searching, “ trying to track me down in my own home.” It got so crazy that I would only practice the song when Sandy wasn’t home for the fear that…I don’t know what. The paranoia lasted until one day when I just couldn’t take it anymore. What was I doing? What was I afraid of? So, what if Sandy heard the song. She’s a smart girl who knows me better than I even know myself. She would immediately realize that that the whole creepy theme was entirely made up. And even though she’s seen me naked a thousand times both physically and psychologically I couldn’t for some reason purposely show her the song. I wanted to but Guilt sewed my tongue to the top of my mouth. I don’t know why but the ghost of Guilt had both of its green greasy hands wrapped tightly around my throat. And even though I decided to give in at those times when she entered the room while I was working on the song I couldn’t. She would ask me what I was up to. I would abruptly drop the pen or guitar and uncharacteristically remain silent while she stared at me knowing something was up. The Guilt ghost had its green greasy hands wrapped tightly around my throat in a suffocating choke hold. I eventually gave up. Before going to bed on the night that I had finished the song I, “accidently”, left a copy of the lyrics lying in full view on the kitchen table. When I woke up the next morning there it was. Sandy had found the song right where I had left it. She obviously read every word of it. How do I know? Sitting neatly next to my copy was her copy. Yes, that’s right she rewrote the entire song line by rhyming line using her own thoughts and words. She even gave it a new title: “Forbidden Treasure Tempts the Weary”. “A pretty, pretty good title.”, whispered the Ghost over my shoulder. I think I,ll be leaving as he up to the ceiling and disappeared into a cloud of smoke.
How songs became songs...
Trust His Love
I got very excited and energized the first time I heard the songs of David Crowder. Crowder is a contemporary music singer and songwriter who performs in front of mega crowds in mega churches. His intense high energy from the stage is matched by the ebullience and enthusiasm of the audience. I was captivated by the connection with the mania inside the church. Thats when I said to myself, I want that. So I decided to write a praise song. A praise song is a song about the glory of God. I figured If Crowder could do it, then so could I. So, I took one of my other original songs, “When the Angels Come”, and wrote over the chords with new lyrics. This song “Trust His Love”, was easy to write because I used common clichés about praying, having faith, caring, and worship of an all-knowing benevolent God. Even though I wasn’t inspired by those feelings, I went ahead and hacked it out. I thought that this was something megachurch people would like to hear. You could say that this song was created at first as an intellectual exercise, but an unexpected transmogrification was in the works. As I practiced it, trying to sync up the lyrics and the chord changes, a feeling grew in me. The more I played it the more the song began to possess me. It is not uncommon for me to inhabit a song. This is the most effective way that I found to make a song sound authentic while performing it in public. But this was different. “Trust His love” began to inhabit my soul instead of the other way around. Just like Saul who was knocked off his horse in Damascus, I instantly became a believer. The first line of the opening chorus begins with a question: Do you want to pray? But the first line of the second chorus changes it up to, I’m going to pray. The words were now not just an exercise in songwriting; I became one with them. They became part of me. I joined the congregation of believers. Singing along in full fervor and hitting all the full stops in the chorus after the words, do you want to pray, I found yes, I did want to pray. As a child, I spent 21 years in parochial school. From St. Ephrem’s Elementary, through Xavarian High School, and finally graduating from Fordham University, my education was bathed in the tenants and philosophy of the Catholic church. I was academically baptized in the waters of these educational institutions, just as I had been physically christened as baby under the holy waters of Saint Ephrem’s church when I was 2 months old. So, I guess there has always been the seed of faith, hope, and charity germinating in the soil of my soul. It is not surprising that between the waters of these baptisms, and in the light of a fantasy, I believed I could sing convincingly at the head of an ecstatic mega church congregation. I was converted. I have played and sung this song many times since I wrote it in 2012. And now more than ever when I close my eyes and sing that first line, Do you want to pray, I am mentally transported into a kneeling altar boy. With my hands folded, I look down from the marble altar into the adoring eyes of the church congregation as I sing my gospel sermon. Trust His Love.
Number One Fan
The Martiny family has been an irresistible source of inspiration to me and to my song writing. Beginning all the way back to the shores of Pismo beach California with the tune, “Tank Tank Woman”, which I wrote before meeting Sandy (don’t ask me how she could have inspired a song even before we met), all the way through my 2022 CD, “Michigan Picker” I have found words and rhymes to describe my marriage into my Michigan family. Some of these songs were bonified family hits among my in laws, as well as positively received by anonymous audiences when I performed them for the public. Songs like “Don’t Take the Window from My Room”, (my mother law), “When the Angels Come”, (my father-in-law}, “Michigan Picker”, (my wife) etc.. These are tunes that always elicited a range of positive emotional reactions from tears of joy to tears of nostalgia from those who heard them. Everyone likes these songs. These tunes were especially favored by the people they were written about. But this favorable reaction was not aways the case. For example, the song I wrote inspired by my nephew’s romantic breakup, “Do What You Want To Do”, did not sit well with my nephew. When he heard it, he hated it. And I guess rightfully so. Who wants to be reminded of their real-life missteps. Still, I think it’s a good song. I didn’t pen it to intentionally make him feel shitty. It just turned out that way. Stories that are captured from the facts of real life have a way of getting under the listener’s skin. On the other hand, stories created from the imagination that are pure fantasy where a name or two is dropped of a real person can also have a similarly disastrous effect. Strong reaction erupted when my niece heard her, “Number One Fan”, song for the first time. She wanted to kill me. “Uncle Al write a song for me. I know that you can.” This was an innocent request. And I must admit flattering one also. She trusted me to write a song for her which I’m sure she believed would be iconic. This would be a tune worthy to sit inside the cannon of the many other fabulous Martiny family inspired songs. My original intention was to do just that. I would pen some pretty words and complimentary feelings about my sweet niece. Unfortunately, when all was said and done it didn’t turn out that way. It turns out that a song about my niece led to a creative flight of fantasy. (Or some other clarifying statement that the song supposedly about a real person turned into an opportunity for story telling about something else. )The song started out well with a positive perspective but still from the very beginning there was this unspoken feeling between the lines which smelled of something that just wasn’t right. It’s in the chorus when everything turns sideways from a vision of domestic tranquility to a vision of shameless infidelity. I should have known that I was in trouble just from the words of the first few lines. “She loves her kids...but sometimes with three little ones is more than she could take.” I tried to pedal back out of it in line three. “Her husband… always lends a hand. He’s her number one fan.” That’s when the trapped door opened. He wants to help her, standing by her all these years, but alas he has reached the end of his rope. The noose tightens in verse two when, “She’s got a garden that takes up the whole back yard. But feeding a growing family sometimes seems so hard.” Gasping for breath as the knot slides down, she’s, “…bone tired when her body hits the bed,& Lights out that’s when, “…she starts dreaming.”, of what else… looking for a boy for a way out. “There’s a boy in a rock and roll band that tells her that he’s got a plan to write a song for her…” And she knows that he can. She’s his number one fan. It’s the words in verse three when the undertaker knows that he will get paid. Holding her breath she, “…picks up the handle of the bed side phone. Dials her number but nobody is home. Scoops up her dress from the motel room floor…” What! Bedside phone? Motel room floor? What’s going on here? Signing my own death warrant I make one final plea. I not only just accused my niece of cheating on her husband, but I also inferred that she cheated on him with boy that she knows can write a song for her. “Every night of the week. She sleeps soundly in her bed. With thoughts of her family warm in her head. But on Friday the eagle fly’s flies and to all those thoughts she says goodbye.” So, I plead to the court for redemption. Your honor, creative propulsion fuels this fiction. “Theres a boy, there’s a boy, there’s a boy…” As the judge listens, I reach back to where the song begins and grab a knife to slice into the hangman’s rope. Changing the pronouns from verse one: “Her husband… always lends a hand. He’s her number one fan.’. Not guilty”, the Judge pronounces as his gavel slams. Case closed! My niece is going back home. Her husband forgives her. They live happily ever after. But sometimes at night when the cold wind moans, she still calls me Uncle Al when she visits my tome.
Rise Up Pt 1
I just can’t take it anymore. The war in the middle east, politicians strangling each other on the debate stage and the children dying of starvation in the absurdity of Sudan. How can I make it all stop? Al sat at his kitchen table, the one his mom gave him. It was made of a rich dark brown mahogany. The color reminded him of freshly brewed expresso. Mom liked expresso. The table had two leaves in the center when it arrived from the movers. He never bothered to remove them. The table was too large for his small, cramped apartment on the fourth floor of his railroad flat in Hoboken. He could have removed the leaves to make the table smaller, not needing such a large piece of furniture because he lived alone and had few friends, none of which he had ever invited up. But he kept the leaves in. The table was a reminder of the spacious home where he had grown up in the Dyker Heights section of Brooklyn. Big homes paid for in cash by the owners whose “jobs” in plumbing, importing and construction created a mini-Tuscany on twelfth Avenue. Mafia money. Rococo mansions hidden beneath the shadow of the new Serre Calabresi Verrazano bridge. What day is it? Do I have to move my car? Alternate side parking sucks. Recycling is on Tuesday or is it Trash put out on Tuesday? Who cares if it’s raining? I’m not going out anyway. Al sat at his kitchen table, the one his mom gave him. Its dark brown wood flawless sheen was the result of always being covered by a thick felt pad underneath a smooth shiny clear plastic tablecloth. Forty years of Italian meals were served on this table and all during that time not one drop of sauce touched wood. He thew out the felt pad and plastic cover the day the table arrived. He liked the warm wood surface. Unblemished and ready for a new chapter. A chapter where he imagined that the clattering of dishes and the skittering of silverware would leave their mark on the wood like tattoos on a sailor. Christmas already? And as usual I have not bought a single present, put up a stick of decoration or thought of if I want a tree in the living room this year or not. Who makes up these holdays? They should be shot. Al sat at his kitchen table, the one his mom gave him. He could barely see the dark wood top which was the color of freshly brewed expresso from Tasty Pastry. Coffee from Tasty Pastry was the best in Dyker Heights Brooklyn. The table was covered with Al’s homemade Christmas cards. He made them every year. He designed the covers and printed them with an original uplifting message on his home computer. This year the cover was a photo he took at Breezy point of green sea grass in front of a robin’s egg blue sky topped by puffy pink and white cotton candy clouds. It wasn’t exactly what you would call a traditional Christmas themed image but when he looked at the photo it made him feel serene and happy. The inside of the card was the words of his latest original song. He told himself that those words were the true meaning of Christmas. It made him feel less guilty for the apathy he always felt around the holidays. Throughout his whole life he hovered detached like he was living outside of the world. A feeling of floating above the earth. A feeling of looking down on the watery rock. Like a puffy pink, white cotton candy cloud. Just forget all about it. Get out of your head for a change. There is a world out there and to most people it’s not that bad. Most people know what they know. Just put on the radio and finish writing out the addresses for this year’s attempt to feel connected via the U.S. mail. Al turned on the radio in the kitchen. The station was fixed at the National Broadcast Channel. It was the only station that his wife Sandy would listen to. Al hadn’t change the station in months. This time she was gone for good. She threatened for years that if Al didn’t shape up that she was going to move out. A week ago, she finally kept her promise and left If I hear about another school shooting, I’m going to shoot myself. What was it this week, Georgia, West Virginia or was it West Nile, Monkey pox or the Avian Bird Flu. Someone shut it off and get me out of here. “Thank you, Betty, from Queens.” Al heard Brian Leherer say from the radio. The Brian Leherer show is a popular talk show that broadcasts on NPR. Sandy’s favorite radio station. Liberal, progressive and mostly full of crap in Al’s opinion. Al was never a big fan of the show until today. Brian was taking calls from listeners. It was the annual Christmas show. Listeners were asked to call in to the show with a poem or to recite a personal experience that was uplifting and positive that would help elevate the good tidings of the holiday season. “And now let’s hear from Alfred in Jersey City.” Al couldn’t believe it. It was his voice coming out of the radio. “Thank you, Brian,”, Alfred said. “I’d like to read the first verse of a song I wrote titled Rise Up”.” Go ahead Alfred,” said Brian. There’s peace in the valley Everyone can feel it The air is soft and warm That’s what we need to heal it Grey clouds are parting Let the sun shine in Peace and joy for everyone. “Thank you, Alfred.” said Brian. “And now let’s hear from Daniel in Piscataway.” Al was sitting at his kitchen table, the one his mother gave him. The dark wood now fully exposed. Not a sign of a scratch or smudge marred its deep glowing mahogany surface. The table was empty with no trace of the morning’s effort to feel connected to the world via the US mail. Christmas cards were chaotically scattered across the old Italian tiles beneath his feet. Blown there by some unseen wind. Al did not know how they got there. He got up from his chair and walked over to the radio. Reaching for the dial he tuned it, changing the station from NPR to WKRP, the country music station. Sandy hated country music. Rise Up pt.2 Memory hack. Pentimento, Dejavu. The song Rise Up rose up from an awakening I had about climate change. I got a feeling that because I wasn’t part of the solution that I was part of the problem. I decided to change that. And change that in what better way than to write a song about climate change. A sort of penance for not caring about not trying to mitigate the danger. I felt that this was partly my fault and now I was going to correct it by writing an awesome song. A song so awesome that it would not only free me from my sin but that it would offer absolution to others as a sort of indulgence that is forever supplied. A constant stream of forgiveness that absolves the sinner in eternity. I nailed it in the second verse. Mothers love their children The whole world over They want to see them safe Wherever they go Love and understanding Is our field of cover Soft rains warm winds Make our garden grow The song sat for 4 years in the pickle jar. Just another scrap of typing paper written with a Ticonderoga No. 2 HB pencil.
When the Angels Come
“I’ve had my time on this earth. And no one can say it wasn’t long enough. And I wonder what my life is worth. And if I’ll be thought of for better or worse”.
Gordy was a very sick man when he died. His lifestyle was not kind to his body. Sixty years off smoking cigarettes blackened his lungs. Wheezing in and out of breath was a familiar sound you heard when you were near him. Spending much of his outdoor life as a Boy Scout leader in the summer under the bright campground sun etched the retinas of his pale blue eyes. Macular degeneration eventually proceeded into near total blindness. The two hip replacements matched by the two knee replacements never completely relieved the pain he had when trying to move around his rapidly shrinking world. He loved his scotch. Everyone knew it would eventually kill him. It did not. It was the lung cancer that got him. When the cancer was discovered, he refused treatment. He believed it was time for him to go. But yet, with all these indignities thrust on to his body, none of them suppressed his happy attitude toward life. The outward appearance of him when he was a younger man of being gruff, stubborn and cold slowly melted away like ice in the sun. He began to shine with a genuine good humor. He was pleasant to be around and never complained of his constant pain. I found inspiration amid this sadness. What did I really feel when he died? Grief yes, but also hope. “I want to be done when the angels come. My glass will be empty my song will be sung. So, friends don’t you call me in for one last round. I want to be done when the angels come”
I’ve been known to get nostalgic about the present. Time passes in this song with events that haven’t happened yet. Transferring Gordons life for mine I Imagine my grown family whom Sandy and I have yet to begot. A passing of a life partner also haunts the lyric although my wife is still with me. None the less in the true Slaughterhouse 5 quantum universe it has happened and is happening now. I’ve raised up a family and now they’re grown with the help of a women that I was lucky to know. But she went up and left me here below to carry on her tradition.
“I’ve had my time on this earth. And no one can say it wasn’t long enough. And I wonder what my life is worth and if I’ll be thought of for better or worse.” With some certainty and an optimistic assumption, I ask the existential question: Why am I here. This line brings the universal. I’ve answered this many times centering on the idea that we are all connected. My parable of the Red Sweater pretty much sums it up (more about this later).
The Oooh’s and Ah’s verse bring the song to church. A simple singalong refrain that never failed to elicit audience participation when I performed, “Angels…” in public. A very satisfying communion. Pretty much the holy grail for a singer to have the listeners sing along. The song ends with the slowing of the tempo and volume reduced to a whisper. On the altar with my right hand raised while slowly descending on the final Ah, we all become one in the present moment, in the forgotten past and the unknowable future.