“Every great cause begins as a movement, becomes a business, and eventually degenerates into a racket.” - Eric Hoffer  

Yes, the grievance machine must be fed.  And the more it eats, the more it wants.  The struggle must continue, the war must never end.   A passage near the end of this song summarizes my feelings about this never-ending game, as follows:

And I’ve watched it through the decades,  and I’ve come to the conclusion,
It will never change.
It makes me sad to tell my children, “When you become my age,
It will be the same.”

Lyrics...
Yes we’ve come a long way Son
But never can enough be done
We won’t let you down, my Son
No we won’t let this war be won

So Hands Up, lift ‘em high, keep the word alive
Hands Up, forever must the narrative survive
If you wear your bloody bandage well
The world can watch you lose
It gives us so much more to use
Trust us Son…..we do it all for you.

Reach into the well my Son, of bottomless dependence
Deep pockets to the left will keep it fed
Draw from it your victimhood, be handed down your sentence
Your children can still serve it when you’re dead

So c’mon now….	

Hands Up, lift ‘em high, keep the word alive
Hands Up, forever must the narrative survive
A permanent emergency, the crisis never dies
It’s eternal shame & strife
You may see a finish line….
Oh Son, but you can’t cross !!

Hands Up !!  Hands Up !!
Ah, can you hear me now?.....

And the grifters & their ilk, craft issues to be milked
They convince the shy, you will never fly
Till the Eagle has been killed
Fresh soldiers train in the ivy halls
And the scholars preach, come heed the call
Flaunt the wounds, provoke the pain
And open up the sores
Come & pick the scab, and let it bleed, bleed, bleed

See you have to understand my Son…

No we can’t ever let it heal
It’s our transfusion, our cover shield
God knows what would be revealed
If they ever peel it back….

Hands Up!!  Hands Up!!

And I’ve watched it through the decades
And I’ve come to the conclusion
It will never change
It makes me sad to tell my children
When you become my age
It will be the same

Hands Up, Hands Up

In 1965 the heroes gave their lives to change the rules
In 2065 the hustlers still will seek this fight to use....

Hands Up !! (Keep the Word Alive)

As the old Soviet joke goes, “In the Soviet Union, we know what the future holds. It’s the past that’s always changing.”      (lyrics below, after the song description)                                             
                                                     ****************
In this small, quaint college town, the town-gown relationship, for most of the 150 plus years since the college’s founding, had been productive.  The town benefited economically,  & students appreciated the town's charm, history & heritage.   Often on sunny days, classes of students would visit the park at the downtown square, brought by their history professors to learn not only of the town's history, but also about eleven young local men lost in America's Civil War, memorialized by the modest statue of a lone soldier, who had stood like a sentry at the the park's entrance since 1905.

But times change, don't they...
                                                   ********************

Notes:  More Americans died in the American Civil War than in any other war in our country's history, including each of the World Wars.  In my song, the word "Daughters" references the Daughters Of The Confederacy, a women's civic group formed in the 1890's by daughters (and wives & nieces) of men lost in that war.  The attached picture is the inscription on the base of a statue of a uniformed soldier, standing in a park in Dallas, Georgia, a small town 30 miles northwest of Atlanta.
                                                            



Lyrics....
My name is McKenzie, and Jenkins and Embry,
And eight other names you still hear in these parts,
For over a century, I stood quiet at the entry,
On East Main into Lafayette Park,
A plaque was engraved, told why I was placed,
On those gardened grounds,
In this Small American Town.

Commissioned in 1905,
By the Daughters for fathers who died,
I was erected to honor eleven so bold,
Not a single one knowing he’d never grow old,
On these boys account I’d forever stand proud,
Stand sturdy & stout,
In this Small American Town.

The kids from the college on Heritage Hill,
Would hold class in the park’s warm sunshine,
They learned of this cruel war we waged with ourselves,
How 600,000 had died,
And of eleven from here just about their age,
Small farmers & blacksmiths & craftsmen by trade,
None fought for cotton, not one owned a slave,
And they learned why the Daughters placed me on that mound,
To keep those boys’ memories around,
In this Small American Town.

But enlightened new students don’t meet in that space,
Through new glasses old wars just don’t look the same,
Now scholars say men who went off to that war,
Fought not out of duty, but hate,
I feared I’d be forgotten by Heritage Hill,
Yesterday’s soldiers, obscure battlefields,
But alas, rearranged history determined my fate,
                          **************
Wise men have long warned of changing the past,
Of purges & vengeance & iconoclasts,
Then one fateful night there was smoke rolling down from the Hill,

Quickly surrounded by torches of fire,
Cursing & spitting & rage in the air,
Rope round my shoulders, a cheer by the crowd,
I came crashing down to the ground….
                         **************
An uneasy quiet in the town since that day,
Hushed conversations about how things have changed,
But up on the Hill it’s all smiles & goodwill,
For it’s the 2nd weekend in May,
Ceremonial speeches, awards all around,
Uncles & aunts & parents in town,
To watch the sweet children who torched & burned me to the ground,
Be awarded their caps & their gowns,
In this Small American Town.

Small American Town

A few years ago, one of our presidential candidates referred to those who had the audacity to vote for the other candidate as "Deplorables".   It occurred to me that my family and I might fall into that "deplorable" category, so I thought I would offer a little insight into the daily life of us deplorables, or at least the perception of us by many of the social / political elites.               (pictured: the twins)

Adorable Deplorables

Country boy leaves his small-town life & small-town sweetheart for the big-city life & a big-city girl, and everything seems to be working out grand. But it turns out that there’s just one little problem….

Show less

Just One Little Thing....

C'mon Bruce
You're stuck in a rut
Do Paris, do Rome
Gotta get off your butt
You only got one life
Gotta see Rio
Climb Kilimanjaro
Ski Lake Tahoe

But I don't wanna go
So leave me alone
I'll keep my lazy ass closer to home
No thank you man
I got a better plan
And I'm gonna be just fine
    *****************
On South Padre, or St. Simon's,
Any beach will do,
In the islands, Caribbean,
'long as I'm with you.

Breakfast At The Beach

Who could blame them for being giddy?  They finally had him….got the mugshot, and in a few months he’d be tried & convicted, and best of all, out of their way for good.  Some may question their motives & methods, but hey, it was up to them to save democracy, right?  
******************* 
For this one, I rounded up my fantasy band, the Famous Texas Men Of Note, to perform at the imaginary Seven Sisters Dance Hall, some 40 miles west of Austin, in the heart of the Texas Hill Country.  The crowd wasn’t huge that night, but it was plenty raucous.  Needless to say, we brought the house down.  We always do.

LYRICS
Finally bagged the prize,
Event commemorated with a photograph,
A delightful list of crimes,
Got ‘em prancin’ with the lawyers down the primrose path,
The scribes down in the court,
Breathlessly report,
With a glee they can’t contain,

Oh they’re giddy….

Giddy like the rats that swarm the sewage slag,
Giddy like the vultures, feasting on the rotted culture,
That has spawned them from its womb,
And they tell us all how grateful we should be,
Cause they’re doing it to save democracy.
 
Yeah all fortitude & grit,
Our protectors wouldn’t quit,
On this noble quest,
There would be no rest,
Staged sudden raids, drew dossiers,
Tried Russian links, threw kitchen sinks,
To cage the dreaded pest,
Damn the proper form,
They’ve snared Le Bete Orange,
Slam the gavel, bring the charge,

And now they’re giddy…..

Giddy like the buzzards circling o’er their prey,
Giddy like the varmints, chewing on the hated target,
While the judges hold him still,
Giddy like the frantic hawks, flailing with their shrilly squawks,
The fear they just can’t kill,
Damn the coming storm,
Now they’ve booked Le Bete Orange,
Slam the gavel, bring the charge,
Hey, the law may be applied unequally,
But it’s the only way to save democracy.

I beg you Lovely Lady, turn your head away,
Away from the shame, away from the pain,
America, America, how did we let it get this far?
We are your sons, what have we done?
What have we done……….

Ah but giddy doesn’t last, when the vengeance & the wrath,
Shred the piers that bear the load,
No it won’t be so hysterical, when even Heaven’s miracle,
Can’t keep our father’s code, 

Oh but decision day is nigh, & the beast is still alive,
And far too many still believe…..

So arrest the Monster!...show it on TV,
Silence him & anyone who won’t concede,
There’s no time for constitutionality,
When the mission is to save democracy.

Giddy (now with lyrics)

***COMING WED AUG 13, BLUE ROOM W/SAX & HAMMOND***

The Blue Room – smoke and whisky and tears….

The original idea was a smoky, jazzy, late night club-for-lonely-hearts kind of thing.  But since my “jazz” piano always ends up honky-tonk, and I can’t seem to lose the backwoods in my voice, the final product – though still smoky & late night – is more lonely hearts beer joint than jazz club.  Jazzabilly maybe.  Redneck Blues. 
								
But there is a plan to give the song a little jazz credibility.  I play an organ solo mid-song that I actually wrote for saxophone.  I’m sending the song to my little brother, longtime Atlanta musician Herb Avery, who says he knows a sax player who’ll take it on.  So if Herbert can make that happen, I’ll upload the new version later.  If he can’t, I’ll be looking for a sax player out there.  And yes, for now I’m keeping the sax player pic posted, to remind me to get this done.

My daughter Julia helped out vocally on the choral refrain.

So here we go.  Come set for a spell in The Blue Room…..when nobody loves you.

The Blue Room (orig. version)

A few months back, anyone landing on this page was extended an invitation to….“come set for a spell in The Blue Room…..when nobody loves you.”  Well, took a while, but I reckon the word’s getting out amongst the broken hearted - this smoky little back-alley jazzabilly joint been seeing some semi-decent crowds lately.  Might have to add a couple more tables over there in that side area where we been storing the old feltless pool table.   

I dunno, maybe there really are a lot of lonely hearts out there, looking for companionship.  But my bet is that the real draw here is the new act on stage, as the house band is now joined by two long-time Atlanta musicians - Herb Avery and his Hammond organ, and Randy Hunter with his saxophone.   

For this version of the house theme song (aka The Blue Room), not only is my fumbly-finger organ solo replaced with Randy’s stellar saxophone, but I’ve put together a new intro, much more fitting for the new instrumentation.   And btw, brother Herbert not only plays his Hammond on the song, but that’s him you’ll hear on the background lounge piano as the track opens.

So yeah, come set for a spell, and let Randy & Herb show you their stuff.

The Blue Room - version 2 w/sax & B-3

Look at a U.S. map, and draw a straight line from Natchez, Mississippi to Richmond, Virginia.  Then cross it with another line from Savannah, Georgia to Memphis, Tennessee.  Next draw a circle around the outside tips of each line.        The area you've encircled is the subject of this song.
     There is so much spectacular beauty in this world, but I just have never found another place that can compare to a thick old-growth Appalachian forest or the rolling hardwood and pine hills of central Alabama or middle Tennessee.
      I grew up there but don't get to go back often enough.
      The song's title White Spangled Hills is reference to the dogwood tree, which grows wild throughout the area, coloring the wooded hillsides with its white blooms for a month or so in early Spring.

White Spangled Hills

Rich, pampered girl from Abilene, Texas meets a trail-worn cowboy with a checkered past, and they head north to avoid her family's scrutiny. It's a doomed relationship from the start, of course, and only lasts until the snow breaks.  Abilene comes calling - she heads back home, and the cowboy does what all cowboys in trouble do (at least in the songs I listen to) - he splits for the border.  True story?  Maybe...
 
The timeline in the song is a little convoluted - begins in the middle and then back to the start, then to the end and back to the middle etc.,..   But you old cowhands will figure it out.

Female voices are Julia Avery and Madison Carr.
 
And the winter would pass......

When Abilene Calls

Instrumentation on this one is entirely baritone uke, harmonica (chromatic, not blues) and bass (& a bit of keyboard percussion here & there).  Gotta try that again sometime.  Track originally uploaded March 2020.

I hope, world, we've learned our lesson, and never let this happen to us again.

Better Days (Will Be Here Soon)

She's left him, but his nights are still filled with pleasant dreams about her.
His days aren't so pleasant.

Sweet Dreams

The fear and hatred for the man is unprecedented in American politics, yet some 77 million people voted for him in the last election. Detractors & supporters alike agree that he's a disruptor. Some call him a phenomenon; he's certainly an enigma.  And he’s turned the American political culture upside down.  I uploaded this song in October 2020, and perhaps the question in the song title has yet to be answered.

Are You The One (We've Been Waiting For)

Out on the porch, pickin' & grinnin' & drinking beer, waiting for the fiddle player and the mandolin guy. Neither one showed, so we did the best we could with the guitars. My daughter Julia helped out on the vocal harmonies.

This little ditty is my attempt to musically chronicle the 47 years my wife & I have been together.

Bruce Avery

Pinned to spotlight

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