Normally at this time of the year I would have my head deep down in the sweet-smelling flowers and shrubs of my garden, but it is still so cold here in South Australia that I am still hunkered down inside, and thinking of getting another half tonne of firewood to see me through this tail end of winter that is supposed to be spring.
So I am still going through piles of stuff I have written over the years. The other day I came across my old song book – chock-a-block full of the songs I was singing and playing in the late seventies – all typed out with pencilled-in chords. And amongst them, here and there, songs I wrote myself. So I plucked all of those out and clipped them together to go in with ‘My Stuff.’
I was talking to a friend about the find and he asked to look at them. He asked if I thought I could still play and sing them. No on both counts I had to tell him. I told him how long it takes to get one’s hand muscles and fingers strong, stretched and supple enough to be able to play the guitar. And my vocal range has shrunk with age. Used to be comfortably two octaves, now probably one and a half. Not terribly useful. Still have my beautiful instrument though – my Tama acoustic guitar – resting in the corner of a spare room – full of memories every time I look at it, including one of the wonderful day I bought it.
My friend asked if he could take the song and muck around with it on the piano. ‘I won’t know the tempo but maybe you can come and sing the song with me one day.’
‘Hmmm don’t know about that,’ I said. ‘My voice is not what it used to be.’
Perhaps I’ll share the lyrics here.
SOME WILL NOT MAKE IT IN TIME – circa 1977.
The world is a playing field, Man is a team
playing the game that is Life
The flesh and the spirit
God against Man
Will peace ever reign over strife
Chorus –
Some of the players just fall into place
Some are like words out of rhyme
Some get there early and others are late
Some will not make it in time
Give to a farmer an acre of land
Watch him decide what to do
Give to this farmer some good dirt and grain
He’ll feed more than just one or two
Give to a maestro a forest in rain
A bird and a song in each tree
Give to this master some rain and the birds
He’ll give you a grand symphony
Chorus –
Some of the players just fall into place …. etc
Give to a miser who’ll reap but won’t sow
a rainbow and canvas and oils
He’ll rush to the place where the rainbow falls down
and leave to the painters their spoil
Give to the leaders a pathway to light
The ones who’ll accept it are few
The power and the glory will blind them until
all that was old becomes new
Chorus
I mentioned in my last blog that I had discovered a young singer, Jack Barksdale. Why do some artists just instantly resonate with us in the strongest way? This young boy with the soul of a learned sage is still so new on the music scene that we can still communicate with him. I have been making comments on his Insta posts and getting replies – either from Jack himself or his mother Clara. I don’t think this will last long though as his followers are increasing like an electricity meter reading in winter.
In his posts Jack talks about the musicians who have influenced him, which has led me to a wide range of blues and country singers. I was sharing my excitement around all of this with a friend who asked had I ever listened to any of Graeme Connors’ stuff. I hadn’t, so I did. Graeme Connors is an Australian writer and singer of ballads. I couldn’t believe I had never heard any of his songs because they are so rich, and have also struck a deep chord in me.
His ‘A Little Further North Each Year’ set up such an emotional yearning in me to get back out into the bush and to be on the road that I physically ached with it. A beautiful thing though, is to share music with someone who is with you in your musical tastes and also the substance of the lyrics.
In my folder of songs I found another one – written in collaboration with a fellow musician from the seventies. The lyrics are credited to my friend. I wrote the music which I can’t share with you here. It never got a title.
I was born a mountain
I saw the man child grow
And a million years we lived in peace in a world we’d come to know
Then came the nights of madness
With his greed he laid me bare
But in my death I buried him with wisdom and despair
Then I was made an oak tree
and I towered across the land
But I fell in love with the wild west wind
and reached for her whispering hand
I called to her restless spirit
and begged to be as free
but every day I learned to wait
till the west wind came to me
Then I became an eagle
Free to court the sun
I beat the air with wings of steel
and made the whole world run
I dared the gods to touch me
and I drove them from the sky
but an arrow from a small boy’s bow
was to teach me how to die
And now I am a hunter
and I’ve searched the seasons round
for the fragile god of meaning
but love is all I’ve found
So now I rise above myself
and leave to be, the pure
for the simple love of Being
is all that can endure
Like everyone’s at this time of year, my diary is filling. Tomorrow night I am going to a gig at the brewery just down the road from here. Going with a friend. We’ll have a drink and a bite to eat and listen to some good blues and jazz performed by Canberra band Key Grip. Next weekend going to a close friend’s (big) birthday party and also another gig at the old Cheese Factory in Meadows. Loren Kate is another amazing singer/songwriter who has created an adventure of a life resulting in a plethora of stories in song that I will hear that day.
Life can be good if you make it. So many gifted and creative people whose work I am thankful for.
Lots more songs and stories to share with you, but next time, and then the next.
Enjoy.
Warmly,
Sue
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