JUNKED CARS

Across from Grand Union Station
I'm sitting in a Chicago institution,
Lou Mitchell's Diner, eating lunch
with folk music legend, Bob Gibson,
and Michael Smith, writer of The Dutchman
which I first heard sung by Steve Goodman.
It's not Steve's City of New Orleans
I'll be riding today
but the Southwest Chief all the way to L.A.

I cross the road
and board the train.
Three football fields in length,
weighing in at two million pounds
and powered by three train units,
we ease away from the subterranean platform
on a journey that will end
twenty two hundred miles and two days away.

Wearing baseball caps uniformly reversed
young boys on bikes wave to us
in early evening sunlight
as we depart Streator, Illinois,
passing Santa Fe Railroad boxcars
motionless on adjacent tracks,
The Prairie Farm Milk and Ice Cream Plant
a subliminal message to head to the dining car,
Lou Mitchell's already a receding memory.

It's night time.
We cross the Mississippi into Iowa.
River and state remain a mystery,
as does Missouri,
shrouded in darkness and restless sleep
before breakfast in Kansas.
Dodge City viewed from the observation car
evokes images from Saturday morning movies
as I look in vain for Boot Hill.

Garden City belies its name
with trailer parks and automobile graveyards.
Ubiquitous grain elevators
define every town in Kansas.
The highway parallels our track,
the truckers no match for our speed
as we race them on into Colorado
and a sight of something new,
a field stacked full of refrigerators.

Colorado into New Mexico,
highest point on the Santa Fe network.
Unlike the Townes Van Zandt song
it is not Snowing on Raton
as we crest the Pass.
I toast him with Seven Up,
not a beverage likely to pass his lips.
Townes is a gambler,
defined by stronger stuff.

Storm clouds pursue us across
the Land of Enchantment's
red soil and endless vistas.
Scrubby trees cling to every slope,
there is very little grass,
ranges of hills stretch far and wide.
I am mesmerised by this landscape,
intrigued, enthused and, yes, enchanted.
I determine to return.

Indian pueblos presage our arrival into Albuquerque
where we are greeted by traders
whose wares spill out along the platform.
Ceramics and jewellery,
intricately woven rugs.
From my elevated window seat
I observe bargain hunters
descend from our iron horse to haggle.
I'd like to see them try that with Crazy Horse.

Throughout this journey I've seen
derelict houses, sad, deserted farms,
machinery left to rust or be cannibalised,
cars abandoned and disintegrating
in remote locations.
People move on and don't look back.
Meanwhile, we move on
through another night of fractured sleep
and a bleary eyed welcome to the Golden State

We are in the Mojave Desert.
The sun rises over Barstow. The joshua tree cactus
is prominent on our ascent of Cajon Pass,
taking us into the San Bernadino Valley
"Last time I was through here
this was all citrus plantations,"
Helen Johnson tells me at breakfast,
gesturing at housing developments outside Pomona
while I drink the last of my orange juice.

Five hours ago we were in the desert,
a whole lot of nothing between Needles and Barstow.
Now it's wall to wall urban sprawl.
I see Dodger Stadium's bleacher tops and lights
as we slow to our final stop.
I grab my bags and, in Amtrak speak, detrain,
take my first steps on the West Coast
out through the Union Passenger Terminal
and it's "Good morning, California."

Another year, on another train.....

I'm seated next to Elvis impersonater,
Steve Davis from Florissand, Missouri.
People are thrilled to meet him.
After we eat it's announced
"Elvis has left the dining car."
He breaks out his guitar, borrows a pick,
plays requests for two solid hours.
Back home in England I see him on TV.
Elvis is alive and he's still got my pick.

Another time.....

I take the Texas Eagle.
Dallas, El Paso, out to L.A.
Wherever I look,
in creeks and fields
I see junked cars,
the American way.

BEAT UP OLD GUITAR

I'm this beat up old guitar
Riding in back of the truck
When I think of the things I've seen and done
I can scarce believe my luck

I'm a Dreadnought D28
A Nazareth luthier made me
In a Pennsylvania factory
At the CF Martin Company

I shared the stage with a D45
We can tell some tales between us
But like two broke down bronc riders
We're retired from the arenas

I've earned my summer wages
Thrown my notes to four strong winds
You'll hear me again someday soon
When they replace my worn out strings

Went from Brewer Street in Toronto
To Carnegie Hall and Mariposa
Played at the Newport Folk Festival
And with cowboys in Elko, Nevada

I went on down to New York town
Hung out with the young Bob Dylan
Rode aboard the Festival Express
Where I partied with Janis Joplin

I've earned my summer wages
Thrown my notes to four strong winds
You'll hear me again someday soon
When they replace my worn out strings

I've played every club and honkytonk
Along the Canadian border
Spread cowboy culture songs around
Brought chaos out of order

I'm quartered up in Alberta now
Here in this songwriting shack
Me and the D45 trade licks
Wishing those days could come back

I've earned my summer wages
Thrown my notes to four strong winds
You'll hear me again someday soon
When they replace my worn out strings


LOST AND FOUND

My first love, I was in my teens
Annabelle, girl of my dreams
We were too young, I know that now
Couldn't make it last, I didn't know how

Listen now, don't make a sound
I was in so deep I thought I might drown
What goes around comes around
That's why my heart's in the lost and found

Looking for romance, hoping for love
Maybe I didn't look hard enough
I thought Sally might be the one
Didn't work out when all's said and done

Listen now, don't make a sound
I was in so deep I thought I might drown
What goes around comes around
That's why my heart's in the lost and found

Had a blind date far side of town
When I turned up she turned me down
There were other girls blew me away
Suzie moved in but she didn't stay

Listen now, don't make a sound
I was in so deep I thought I might drown
What goes around comes around
That's why my heart's in the lost and found

Feeling low, it was getting me down
You showed up, new girl in town
That was then and this is now
We can make it last, I know how

Listen now, don't make a sound
I'm in so deep I think I might drown
What goes around comes around
You stole my heart from the lost and found

BOB DYLAN'S HANDS

Folk Music Festival, Newport, Rhode Island
Spirit of Woody, your land and my land
If I Had a Hammer, Pete Seeger had sung
Now he was wishing an axe he had brung

Bob Dylan's axe, an electric guitar
For the Newport folkies was one step too far
His voice was distorted, couldn't hear the words
You want Dylan electric ? Listen to The Byrds

Joan Baez smiled and thought, 'What's all the fuss?
What Bobby does best is what Bob Dylan does'
Backstage it was chaos, grown men close to tears
The future of folk become their worst fears

He sat in a corner, she gave him a glance
Said, "Come on, Bob, let's me and you dance"
"I can't dance, my hands are on fire"
Bob Dylan said to Maria Muldaur

Folk Music Festival, Newport, Rhode Island
Spirit of Woody, your land and my land
All these years later I've just one plea
Hey, Mr.Tambourine Man
Play
Your
Song
For
Me

THE NIGHT BILL HALEY CAME TO TOWN

I'm looking back remembering
The singers and the song
Bill Haley and Bob Dylan
The Everlys, Phil and Don

Unlike the technicolor world of the USA
England in the 50s was drab and charcoal grey
Until the kids began to talk in a most peculiar style
See you later, alligator. In a while, crocodile
Bill sang Rock Around the Clock in the film Blackboard Jungle
Became a teenage hearthrob
though he looked more like your uncle
Then the Comets came to London
on the Rock 'n' Roll Express
Hit the stage at The Dominion, couldn't fail to impress
Played forty five minutes, the audience went wild
All the girls were screaming, we were jiving in the aisles

I'm looking back remembering
The singer and his songs
Don't you wish you'd been around
The night Bill Haley came to town?

We'd been hearing about this kid, there'd been a lot of talk
Come from Minnesota to the folk scene in New York
He wrote a dozen songs a week, he wasn't just a hack
Sounded a lot like Woody, or maybe Ramblin' Jack
I remember the poster with printing black on red
Composer of Blowin' in the Wind was what it said
I've still got the programme, cover photo black and white
Forever young Bob Dylan took the stage alone that night
Stood underneath the spotlight, a single microphone
Just voice, guitar, harmonica, like playing in your home

I'm looking back remembering
The singer and his songs
Don't you wish you'd been around
The night Bob Dylan came to town?

The Everlys sang their hits in a cafe near my school
Jukebox playing Bye, Bye Love while I followed the golden rule
I loved that 45, nothing about it not to like
Saw them play years later,
the two of them and father Ike
But the road, one night stands
and the years took their toll
Went their separate ways,
turned their backs on rock 'n' roll
In September '83 they were back in harmony
Singing their hits from Bye Bye Love
to Wake Up Little Susie
Alone among the audience that memorable night
I was a schoolboy in that cafe in the jukebox neon light

I'm looking back remembering
The brothers and their songs
Don't you wish you'd been around
The night the Everlys came back to town?

JESS

An icy wind's howling through this town tonight
Though you've got to go, Jess, still it don't feel right
Jess, you've made your choice, something we both know
If I took hold of you, Jess, I'd never let go

You and me, Jess, we were quite a pair
I never felt whole when you weren't there
We were a couple of tearaways
I wanted to be you with your daredevil ways

If I had the power to make time stand still
Jess, I'd take us back to the top of that hill
Where we looked down on this hopeless place
Swore we wouldn't stay, let our lives go to waste

An icy wind's howling through this town tonight
Though you've got to go, Jess, still it don't feel right
Jess, you've made your choice, something we both know
My heart is beating fast though I'm moving slow

Now you're making your move, leaving me behind
I'm happy for you, Jess, pay me no mind
I wish things were different, it's not to be
At least one of us has finally broke free

Promise me, Jess, you won't look back
See me standing here by this railroad track
I want to believe one day you'll return
The look in your eyes says you have memories to burn

An icy wind's howling through this town tonight
Though you've got to go, Jess, still it don't feel right
Jess, you've made your choice, something we both know
I'll have blurred vision as I watch you go


SKIFFLE KINGS

Me and my mate Roy
Were into loads of things
But when we weren't playing football
We were the Skiffle Kings
I used to play in goal
Thought I was Ted Ditchburn
But when we played our music
It was Lonnie Donegan

Roy played the guitar
Me, I played the fool
Johnny B. on tea chest bass
Another mate from school
So was Washboard Will
You can guess what he played
We nicked our mothers' thimbles
What a sound he made

Robin was our singer
Though he'd forget the words
But he was dead good looking
Could really pull the birds
He also had a motorbike
The only one who did
They loved to ride his pillion
He was one cool kid

Lonnie played our theatre
And we all went along
Had just about the greatest time
Sang along to every song
We got our songs from Lonnie
And another I should mention
First LP I ever bought
The Vipers' Coffee Bar Session

Played the local youth clubs
Our annual school dance
Would've loved to make a record
But never got the chance
We really weren't that good
If the truth be told
But we'd have those memories
If we ever got old

Roy and I met up again
After all these years
Sat around and reminisced
Over a couple of beers
Talked of this and that
Football, friends and things
And those fantastic times
When we were Skiffle Kings

Roy and I met up again
After all these years
Sat around and reminisced
Over a couple of beers
Talked of this and that
Football, friends and things
And those fantastic times
When we were...

Putting on the agony
Putting on the style
That's what all the young folks
Were doing all the while

In those fantastic times
When we were Skiffle Kings


TOWNES VAN ZANDT'S JACKET

I saw Townes Van Zandt play in Dallas.
He offered me a ride
back to the motel.
Out in the parking lot
his pick-up had a flat.
Townes Van Zandt took off his jacket,
rolled up his shirtsleeves
and changed the tyre.
An extraordinary man
doing what an ordinary man does.

Years later in Brighton
on the south coast of England
Townes Van Zandt walked onstage,
strapped on his acoustic guitar,
then spent several minutes
trying to take off his jacket.
An impossible task
when you think about it.
An ordinary man
doing what an extraordinary man does.

I told this story
to the man who wrote Daydream Believer.
He knew Townes Van Zandt.
The man who wrote Daydream Believer
laughed and laughed.
If I were the man
who wrote Daydream Believer
I would laugh and laugh
all
the
way
to
the bank.


ICE COLD COKE

Back around '55
Ten years after the war
We'd go to Saturday dances
At the Wolvercote Village Hall

Me and friends from school
Some girls we used to know
Others we'd like to know better
But with them it was touch and go

We'd stand around looking cool
In fact we were nervous as hell
On our side of that hall
And the girls, on theirs, could tell

Eventually things got going
Give the girl you fancied a glance
A record was played you liked
It was time to take your chance

When it came to the last waltz
They finally dimmed the lights
You'd pray you had someone
To dance with and hold real tight

I'd leave with my best friend
We had quite a way to go
Lying about what happened
When the lights were low

Cycled up Headington Hill
Riding our Raleigh bikes
With three speed Sturmey Archers
Heading home late at night

We stopped at the red machine
Like a spaceship standing tall
Put our coins in the slot
Waited for the bottles to fall

And I'm here to tell you
I promise you this is no joke
Nothing on earth tasted better
Than that ice cold coke

Back around '55
Ten years after the war
Nothing tasted better
Than ice cold coke

OLD RIVERS AND SLOW MOVING TRAINS

Two lane black top, beat up car
Texaco gas, bound to go far
Abandoned houses, cracked window panes
Old rivers and slow moving trains

Stop by a bar, order a cold one
Dark inside, shut out the sun
Wurlitzer juke box, country song playin'
Old rivers and slow moving trains

Dusty corrals, rodeo arenas
Hometown diner, discount for seniors
Flashing stop light, driving down main
Old rivers and slow moving trains

Old Rivers and slow moving trains
Mile long freights crossing the plains
When they are gone, one sound remains
The mournful whistle from slow moving trains

Grain elevators, water towers
Nodding pump jacks, counting the hours
Drive-in movies, windswept terrain
Old rivers and slow moving trains

Battered pick-ups raise clouds of dust
White church steeples, in God we trust
Weathered red barns with rusting vanes
Old rivers and slow moving trains

High school football, basketball hoops
Big belt buckles, scuffed cowboy boots
Kids ride bareback, clutching the reins
Old rivers and slow moving trains

Old Rivers and slow moving trains
Mile long freights crossing the plains
When they are gone, one sound remains
The mournful whistle from slow moving trains

Chocolate chip cookies all homemade
Styrofoam coolers, pink lemonade
Ice cream parlors, soda fountains
Old rivers and slow moving trains

Resistol hats, Wrangler jeans
John Deere tractors all painted green
Dog days of August, cool summer rains
Old rivers and slow moving trains

Barbequed ribs, slice of pie
Baseball diamond, caught on the fly
America's heartland, golden grains
Old rivers and slow moving trains

Old Rivers and slow moving trains
Mile long freights crossing the plains
When they are gone, one sound remains
The mournful whistle from slow moving trains

COMMON BLOODLINES

My name is Caleb Quayle
I had a brother, John
Despite our common bloodlines
We never did get on

Me, I was straight as string
John was wild and free
I never understood him
He thought less of me

I became a small town Sheriff
Wore my badge with pride
Unlike my younger brother
Who did with outlaws ride

It was in midwinter
Snow lay on the ground
I heard the sound of gunfire
On the north side of town

Saw them come towards me
Three masked men riding fast
The first two got by me
I vowed to get the last

He spurred his horse right at me
I had taken aim
My finger squeezed the trigger
He yelled out my name

His cry came too late
For I had fired the shell
That tore into his heart
And sent us both to hell

I stood beside my mother
The man who killed her son
As they lowered his coffin
I tossed in my gun

There really is no moral
To this tale I've told to you
I wore the Sheriff's star
Did what I had to do

My name is Caleb Quayle
I had a brother, John
Despite our common bloodlines
We never did get on
Despite our common bloodlines
We did never get on