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Pay It No Mind

“Pay It No Mind” is a lovely little song from Sarah Jarosz, and seems like a perfect accompaniment for the times we find ourselves in.

Here’s the way it starts.

Up by the window of the seventh floor,
There’s a little bird stretching her wings.
She’s looking down at the world far below her:
I can hear the little tune that she sings.

This first verse introduces us to the little bird who becomes the song’s narrator, precariously perched seven stories above the ground. And now, let’s see what she has to tell us.

She says, "We all have our notions, baby,
We all laugh and sigh.
And when the world on the ground
Is gonna swallow you down,
Sometimes you’ve got to pay it no mind."

The first two lines are quite simple, but also quite extraordinary, telling us that we all have different ideas about what’s happening now, and what might happen in the future, and that we all have a variety of emotions that we feel about all of this.

My Ride's Here

This is a great song written and recorded by Warren Zevon, and co-written by Paul Muldoon. It appeared on Zevon’s 2002 album of the same name.

The song explores varying attitudes towards death, and towards the prospect of dying. Zevon himself died in 2003, at the age of only 56.

Bruce Springsteen also recorded a great, live version of the song, performed only a few days after Zevon had died. This rendition appears on the Zevon tribute album, Enjoy Every Sandwich.

Of course the words “death” and “dying” appear nowhere in the song. That would be too easy, too obvious.

You’ll notice that various hotel chains are mentioned in the song. At one level, this is probably a literal reference to Zevon’s own life, on the road, and moving from one hotel to another in LA, as described in Desperados Under The Eaves.

1952 Vincent Black Lightning

This is a song by English singer/songwriter/guitarist Richard Thompson. It was first released on his album Rumor and Sigh in 1991, but has since because a staple of his live shows — and I actually prefer some of the live renditions to the original studio version. The song was never released as a single, and so was never a hit for the general public, but it’s an easy song to appreciate, and I’ve never seen anyone give it a listen without at least liking it quite a bit. And many — including this author — believe it to be a classic.

It helps to understand that the Vincent Black Lightning was a real motorcycle, and a very special machine. It was produced in England from 1948 – 1952, and was designed to be as fast as possible. It broke the motorcycle land speed record of the time, going over 150 miles per hour.

Desperados Under the Eaves

I’ve been wondering lately why I’ve never written an appreciation for any of Warren Zevon’s songs. It’s certainly not that he didn’t give us many great tracks to choose from. Upon reflection, perhaps it’s because he wrote so many compact little gems that it’s hard to pick just one.

Whatever the reason, this song of his has been haunting me lately, so it’s time to correct the omission.

Part of Zevon’s genius as a lyricist was his ability to invest ordinary material objects with such deep feelings.

This song is an outstanding example. It’s so simple, so short, and yet the words and images resonate like stones skipped onto the water, with meaning spreading out in expanding ripples.

I’m going to share the lyrics in their entirety before commenting — and, of course, I encourage you to listen to Zevon’s recording as well.

I was sitting in the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel;
I was staring in my empty coffee cup.
I was thinking that the gypsy wasn’t lying:

Step by Step

I’ve been a Jesse Winchester fan ever since I slipped his first album onto my turntable in my dorm room back in Ann Arbor, but somehow I don’t think I’d paid much attention to this gem until I stumbled across it yesterday.

This fits neatly into Winchester’s small but accomplished set of songs about god and religion — songs like “Quiet About It” and “Isn’t That So?”.

One of the things I love about this group of Winchester songs is that he displays obvious familiarity with, and even sympathy for, the Christian tradition, but manages to bring an entirely fresh approach to his questioning of these sacred topics.

This song seems to start with the picture painted by the spiritual “When The Saints Go Marching In,” and then picks up from there.

Give a listen to the Winchester recording, then stroll with me through the lyrics.

Step by step,

Ring Them Bells

This is a gem of a Dylan song: not a big, gaudy rock, but a modest yet finely wrought masterpiece.

It was released in 1989 on his album Oh Mercy, so it’s not from any of his early years, during which his work was more consistently revered. The album was produced by Daniel Lanois, and critics are somewhat divided over the success of his efforts in rendering Dylan’s voice and compositions.

I find the original version by Dylan to be pretty underwhelming, but the song came alive for me when I heard it performed by Sarah Jarosz. She recorded it on her second album, Follow Me Down, from 2011, and she’s included it consistently in the several live shows of hers that I’ve seen.

For me the Dylan version seems a bit slow and somnolent, while the Jarosz version feels much more spirited. Partly, I suppose, it’s the difference between the performance of a world-weary man approaching the half-century mark, working on his 26th album, versus a youthful 20-year old working on her second.

Pancho and Lefty

I’ve already written about “Long Black Veil,” which was one one of my father’s favorite songs.

So I’m probably overdue to write about “Pancho and Lefty,” which was one of my father-in-law’s favorites – and one of mine as well.

A bit like “Hallelujah,” by Leonard Cohen, this song seems to have had an interesting life of its own.

It was written by Townes Van Zandt, a legendary Texan singer/songwriter, and first released on his album The Late Great Townes Van Zandt back in 1972.

Neither the song nor the album received a whole lot of attention at the time, let alone any accolades.

Then Emmylou Harris recorded it on her album Luxury Liner in 1977, giving the song a bit more exposure.

And then, finally, Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard recorded it in 1983, and released it as a single, which promptly became a huge hit for the pair. As the story goes, Willie Nelson’s daughter introduced the song to them.

They All Laughed

I first heard this song as part of the soundtrack to a movie with the same name, made by Peter Bogdanovich in 1981. The movie is worth watching, if you like quirky (as I generally do), but it was the song that stuck with me.

This was really my introduction to the songs of George and Ira Gershwin, with George supplying the music, and brother Ira providing the lyrics.

Many of their songs have become recognized as part of the Great American Songbook, but Ira’s lyrics are often too subtle and offbeat to fit cleanly into that mold.

This song, in particular, is one that is less frequently sung. Supposedly playwright and producer George S. Kaufman heard an early rehearsal of the number and wondered whether it was, in fact, a love song at all, before the brothers finally got to the lyric “They laughed at me wanting you,” at which point Kaufman threw up his hands and said, “Oh, well.

When I Paint My Masterpiece

I’ve been reading Rick Rubin’s book The Creative Act: A Way of Being lately – not all at once, mind you, but sipping it slowly, like a rare old whiskey – and it’s put me in mind of this song by Bob Dylan, from 1971.

This composition has been performed and recorded by Dylan himself on multiple occasions, but the first released recording was by The Band, and their original studio recording is still the version I’m partial to.

Let’s just review the lyrics, shall we? Ideally, of course, along with the music.

Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble.
Ancient footprints are everywhere.
You can almost think that you’re seein’ double,

Train to Birmingham

Southerner Thomas Wolfe, in his book You Can’t Go Home Again, had his main character speak these words:

You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting, but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.

John Hiatt seemed to have had much the same sentiments in mind when he penned his song “Train to Birmingham.”

Several others have recorded this composition, but Hiatt’s own version seems to me to be the definitive rendition.

As the eighth track from the album Dirty Jeans and Mudslide Hymns starts up, note how the rhythm of the drums gives you a seat on the train before Hiatt even opens his mouth.

I’ve been riding on this train,