A pre-release sample for another fundraiser album.

Olive Brown sings the St. Louis Blues 1960's at some club in Memphis

Found on a 1950s recording from a family gathering.

Dilapidated  Billboard Song 1956

Sci-fi collage that was found on a reel to reel tape that was made by Ken Thalio and his friends.

1950s Magnetic Tape Collage by Ken Thalio

Secretly recorded in a psychiatric facility were she doesn't belong.  If you know any pro bono lawyers that want to help get her out from her "prison without bars" please send me a message.

Beverly L. Crawford "Inner Peace"

On September 6th, 1972, Indian classical music suffered a great loss in the passing of Ustad Allaudin Khan, known affectionately as Baba. He was the oldest and most eminent of his peers, a great creator and teacher. It was through his pupils, Pandit Ravi Shankar and Ustad Ali Akbar Khan (his son), that the West began to listen to the music of India. Ustad Allaudin Khan lived in Maihar, Central India, for more than 55 years and was a centenarian. His genius has resulted in a renaissance of the instrumental music of Northern India, and he leaves behind a tradition and a legacy of all that is noble and spiritual in music. It is to his memory that this concert was dedicated. Featuring Ravi Shankar on Sitar, Ali Akbar Khan on Sarod, and Alla Rakha on table. Lakshmi Shankar was present at concert but did not appear on the concert recording on this tape that had been dug up from an estate.

Ustad Allaudin Khan tribute concert 1973 in San Francisco

The Apple Tree by Marshall W. Schackt  1924

read by http://fiverr.com/cecilaki from Greece 
and http://fiverr.com/jive_a_five
with kids recital from the early 80s.

Who is it up in the apple tree
Shaking apples down at me?
It isn’t-the wind, for I hear no wind
But crack through the leaves and
Thud on the ground
Every half a minute or so-
That is the way the apples go.
As far out as the shadows run
The apples are dropping one by one.
Have spread a green apple-light-
As good as the moon’s on an August night.
Or better, on a rainy day,
For apple light- won’t fade away,
Until swept up for the cedar press,
Or packed in a barrel’s quietness.
But who, who is it up in the tree
Shaking apples down at me?

Poem sent to Miss Eleann Paul, Hunting Lane Farm. Therborn, Mass.

"The Apple Tree " by Marshall W. Schackt  1924

Cassette from an estate sale on which was recorded a concert pianist with two kids. I mixed the sound of the father's piano playing at home with the famous Sesame Street song sung by Oscar the Grouch written by Jeff Moss.

"I love trash" cassette performance

Sung by http://fiverr.com/stormereeves
with illustration by Felicia Yee

Upon this double decker bus I sit
Joy in my heart, but a flutter with my hands
As I fumble with my tape recorder

The tour guide informs us
Im in awe of this land
The scottish country side
And a statue of a man
In a kilt;
He stares at me as the people move about him

I gaze up to see the beauty
Of the clouds rolling by
overhead;
I may be old but
I am at peace
In this bonny land
I am happy , to say the very least



"Double Decker Bus" by Stormy Reeves

Here is a marvelous, field recording found at the estate of a professional hypnotist's house. It captures the spirit of the occasion with humor and devotion.

"Play [Fast] Slowly" with Swami-gi 1970s Field Recording

Myrica Jackson is reading from an Indian history of the Buddha.

Lha Bab Duchen

"No Body Love Me" sung by a man and his wife 1960s

In 1866, Laura Foster was murdered. Impoverished Confederate veteran Tom Dula (Dooley), Foster's lover and probable fiancé, was convicted of her murder and hanged May 1, 1868. Foster was stabbed to death with a large knife; the brutality of the attack partly accounted for the widespread publicity the murder and subsequent trial received.

Dula had a lover, prior to his leaving for the war, named Anne Melton, a cousin of Foster. Her comments led to the discovery of Foster's body, but Melton was acquitted in a separate trial based on Dula's word. Dula's enigmatic statement on the gallows that he had not harmed Foster but still deserved his punishment led to press speculation that Melton was the actual killer and that Dula simply covered for her. Melton, who had once expressed jealousy of Dula's purported plans to marry Foster, died insane a few years after the homicide. Thanks to the efforts of newspapers such as The New York Times, and to the fact that former North Carolina governor Zebulon Vance represented Dula pro bono, Dula's murder trial and hanging were given widespread national publicity. A local poet, Thomas C. Land, wrote a popular song about Dula's tragedy after the hanging.

A man named "Grayson," mentioned in the song as pivotal in Dula's downfall, has sometimes been characterized as a romantic rival of Dula's or a vengeful sheriff who captured him and presided over his hanging. Some variant lyrics of the song portray Grayson in that light, and the spoken introduction to the Kingston Trio version did the same. Col. James Grayson was actually a Tennessee politician who had hired Dula on his farm when the young man fled North Carolina under suspicion and was using a false name. Grayson did help North Carolinians capture Dula and was involved in returning him to North Carolina, but otherwise played no role in the case.

Dula was tried in Statesville, because it was believed he could not get a fair trial in Wilkes County. He was given a new trial on appeal but he was again convicted, and hanged on May 1, 1868. His alleged accomplice, Jack Keaton, was set free. On the gallows, Dula reportedly stated, "Gentlemen, do you see this hand? I didn't harm a hair on the girl's head."

Dula's last name was pronounced "Dooley," leading to some confusion in spelling over the years. The pronunciation of a final "a" like "y" is an old feature in Appalachian speech, as in the term "Grand Ole Opry". The confusion was compounded by the fact that Dr. Tom Dooley, an American physician known for international humanitarian work, was at the height of his fame in 1958, when the Kingston Trio version became a major hit.

The doleful ballad was first sung shortly after the execution and is still commonly sung in North Carolina.


"Tom Dooley" 1955  warped recording

Morna read by http://www.fiverr.com/caiterz with music recorded in a living room in Redwood City in the 1960s.

Proud she was in her youth 
And her beauty
She sang
As the birds sing
To ease her breast
Of it’s burden of gladness.
Her full throat pulsed
With the force of her singing
Silent we listened.
I still remember her
Standing alone
On a green hill top
Looking away.
Proud was the lift
Of her fairy chin.
The wind blew
The folds of her gown
Tight about her beautiful body,
I looked up worshiping,
How like a goddess.
Yet, it’s this mere mortal
Who now hears she is dead.
Lovely, oh, she was,
They called her Morna.


"Morna" by Beatrice Mary Foster 1924

Different Ways of Dressing the Hairs
Watertown 1857

There are numerous ways of dressing the hairs. I will stop to mention only a few of the most simple and common, and some that are very peculiar. A few curl it, others comb it straight-back and twist it in a round wad. There are a great many who braid their hairs at night, and in the morning it waves, and looks very pretty, at least they think so; I don’t know what your opinion is on the subject. Tis a very common practice of some to roll their hairs on papers, or tins, especially if they expect to attend a party the next evening, Then if it does not look as if it curled natural they fuss and fix trying to make it lock somehow. Alas it will not curl, the furies and fixes have taken so long that it is too late to go to the party and she remains at home, all on account of her hairs, best she might as well be out of the world as out of the fashion. Now, if you wish to be fashionable just cut off your hairs for that is all the go among the tender apes, yes and shave it all right over your head, but I think I shall postpone visiting the barbers for a few days as fashions shift.


Victorian Valley Girl Retrospective 1857

Perhaps written by [Anne Ashton Joborn] 

Clang, clang, goes the blacksmith’s hammer,
Cling clang on the anvil rings
As he snaps the curving horseshoe,
Hear the song the blacksmith sings.

Blow bellows- ring and burn my fire a burning red,
Strike hammer- ring anvil shape the iron while ‘tis red.

Cling, clang; cling  clang; cling clang; cling clang;
Clang-a-lang-a-ling; Clang-a-lang-a-ling; clang ling-lang

Look, look, see the sparks fly upward,
Hark, hark hear the bellows blow
See the mighty brawny blacksmith
Hear his bellows now fast, now slow.

"Blacksmith Song No.2" 1910

https://www.fiverr.com/hannahrosesongs

Brawny blacksmith big and strong
blow your bellows, sing your song.
When the iron is glowing, rosy red is showing
make your cheerful anvil ring, All your stout blows answering.
Gay your hammer swinging to your joyful singing.
There within your smithies shade
Firelight strongest forms has made,
Shapes that go advancing, o'er the ceiling prancing
here a bigger blacksmith lives
blows on giant anvil gives,
Giant hammer swinging, only never singing
Never singing, hammer swinging swinging.

"Blacksmith Song  No. 1"  by Anne Ashton Joborn (1910)

ETC-TET presents Off Compass~On Course featuring Anne Delaney, Mark Head, and Robert Young. Based on the theme of “Out of Range” we blended an original account of a ship lost at sea (in Half Moon Bay area in California) as told by Robert Young, with Anne Delaney reading from a log book from the 1890s and composing melodic fragments, and Mark Head editing and producing this piece.   

The original piece before being whittled-down to a four-minute story:

     Had the strange barque, Endeavormore, missed the notorious sea crag of Pigsley Point, the treasures ne’er would have reached the impoverished shores of Logberacus. The region could not afford a lighthouse to guard against such tragedies. In fact, prior to this vessel crashing, butterless dust was served on their plates for many years, pockets turned inside out with ne’er a piece of lint, and hollow eyes a frighted at the pervasive and aching lack across the land. From the shore the villagers of the small coastal town had seen the galleon from afar, with its three masts vigorously billowing with life. Sail cloth bright amid a back-lit cloud of combed light.  Surely such a vessel was from an earlier century for ’twas made of wood and intricately carved maiden head of winged glory it was a treasure rare. For this world grown cold in stark vessels of impenetrable sea faring steel and might. Scope set blind entire shrug for shrug twixt two golden shores. Logberacus was of course off the radar. Bereft of blip or bleep.

             Seeing the ship sinking off shore, the caring people of Logberacus wanted to help rescue the barques passengers before they would surely sink to there demise in the cold and turbulent waters. Upon their simple skiffs they set out for the rescue. They arrived at the rocky terrain of Pigsley Pointe. Their eyes lingered in awe of the magnanimity of the vessel poised wreckage teetered on the rocky teeth of Pigsley Pointe. The brave scouts in clothes of rags jumped aboard the ruined ship. However, not a soul was in sight; only the wooden debris creaking with each ponderous wave. 

Meanwhile, upon the nearby beaches flotsam and jetsam was awash upon the beaches of Logberacus. Steamer trunks of supplies were opened bearing many gifts and fulfilling every need. Dried Salmon, waxy rounds of cheese, casks of Meade and red wine, and an abundance of clothing. Villagers partook with trepidation which quickly turned to celebration and feasting.

   Another  villager found an encyclopedia of seeds with pockets and agricultural notes to each particular plant. There were glorious depictions of vegetable, gourds, and odd berries, and rolly-polly fruit. A union of gardeners formed a group eager to raise a crop from the unusual sampling of seeds of myriad shapes and sizes. Many other factions arose from the myriad wonders procured from the wreckage. An industrious sewing circle took to new songs while crafting brocaded cloth and silks. 

         Some other blarney fellows who had been rowing back from the ruined barque reported their perplexity over not finding any sign of passengers aboard the strange ship of ancient disposition.
A cheerful sense of gratitude passed among the people rummaging amid the scattered boon.

	I, too, was a Logberian who had retrieved a thick rounded brass-bolted trunk containing an array papers and books. I took it upon myself to form a faction dedicated to the preservation and understanding of these lost works. Tiger-striped song books brimming with tails and turns of phrases now defunct. Lingering riddles of infinite complexity. Acrostic blurs of endless lines of wonder, such were the discoveries unfolding which shall be shared here by our hearty crew of loose-lipped autodidacts and bored mystics pledged to have a grip at the word smithing of yore. Here these findings plan and fing-fangled, enjoy the treasures that wash unto your ears, fragments from lost imaginings. 


ETC-TET: Off Compass~On Course (2016 Radio Race)

Read by Robert Young with field recordings of San Francisco Wave Organ and Ranjung Yeshe Gomde Hilltop in the afternoon.

Sleepin’ in a Row Boat (In the good old summer time) 

When the lazy days of summer come,
And the heaven turns so blue,
Ther’s just one thing I’am thinking of;
That I really want to do.

Sleepin’ in a row boat,
In the good old summer time;
Tied up to a dock or floatin’,
Rest and rest sublime.
Nuthin’ lef’ to worry ‘bout,
You needn’t have a dime,
Sleepin’ in a tow boat
In the good old summer time.

Drowing, dreaming, sleeping, scheming,
Bobbling up and down,
Oar locks clinking, chinking, thinking,
Sunlight all around.

Listenin’ to the water slappin’,
Sun a’ shinin’ down;
Breeze a blowin’ ‘cross the bow,
Salty smell all’roun’;
Legs and feet spread wide apart;
Everything’ll chime,
When you’re sleepin’ in a row boat,
In the good old summer time.
It seems like nothing matters
When you close your eyes and dream,
And everything seems rosy,
As you lay back there and scheme,
Sleepin’ in a row boat,
Floatin’ all around,
Waves a ‘slappin’, lappin’, tappin’,
Sleepy, creaklin’ sound;
Head a’pillowed on your coat,
Everything just prime;
Sleepin’ in a row boat
In the good old summer time.

I know it would seem to some folks
Like an awful waste of time;
I know ‘there are lots of people that 
Would call the thing a crime;
They couldn’t make themselves “let go,”
And lie down in the dirt
That’s bound to be in the bottom of a boat,
And the boards would be bound to hurt.
There are people that can never rest
Or ease their minds at all;
That have to keep on working, working,
Right on through ‘til fall;
Summer’s just a different kind
Of work like that before,
And mountains or beaches mean the same,
It’s work and work some more;
And just the thought of sleepin’ in a boat,
Would fairly make them sob,
They work just as hard when they’re playing,
As they do when they’re on the job.
But when I’m tired of working,
“Ah jus’ ain’t got no choice.
 
And the lull of the summer and the southland
Creeps into my voice,
And if I can only make it,
I’ll gladly stand the grime,
To be sleepin’ in a row boat
In the good old summer time.

JWW April 25th, 1925





"Sleeping In A Rowboat"  by J.W.W. (1925)

Instrumental music: "Circles of Hair" (c) 2017 Anne Delaney. 

Instrumental music by Anne Delaney. Sibelius 7 program with whistling, whip, contrabass balalaika, and mezzo-soprano. Sound effects by Mark Head and Anne Delaney.

Voices:  Mark Head, Anne Delaney, Estela Gallegos, and Richard Hammerud. 

* * * *

Evening Westford October the 25th 1855

Will Eliza please except this from her friend Josephine,
[Circlular ring-sized lock of  mahogany hair about 3 ¼ inches in diameter tied with a blue ribbon]

This lock of hair you’ve seen me wear
I now present it to your care
For you to keep to remember me
Though  far from you I still maybe

May your path be strewn with flowers
While here on earth you tread
There may we meet in your bright bowers
Where tears are never shed.
-----
Pink envelope with a bell shaped flap with a handpainted sticker of a basket of fruit with peach, pear, and two types of grape above which is lettered in all caps the word CHOOSE. It is addressed to Mrs. Eliza Seathrop of Westford.
------
2.
A lock of chocolate brown with a tinge of auburn is  interwoven as 12 ringlets on a half circle and fastened to the page with a yellow silk ribbon. The following verse is written in blue ink.

May this lock given by me
An emblem of our friendship be
As oft as these lines you peruse
Say will you think of me
And bring to mind
Those blissful hours
When life’s bright path
Seemed strewn with flowers……..

Miss Jane Niles to Miss Ruth Underhill
February 21st  1848
-----
The Paper was folded into four sections the top of which contain the lock of hair and the bottom flap. Held two paper cut outs, a woven heart with ridged humps and a glove adored with overlapping hearts of red and blue.

[Strands of Hair with Lines of Love] by Josephine (1855 and 1848)

Joe Francisco, a passenger in my van, started reciting poetry he had written in the 60s, but I was only able to record the last one at the end of the trip. I mixed the poetry with recordings from inside a pipe 250 yards long that was going to be placed deep in the earth.

"The Moon Moved" by Joe Francisco (c. 1969; read in 2017)

Patrick Lahey ia a contemporary author and tutor.  To learn more visit his website http://www.insightclopedia.com/  Here we present a commissioned reading of Lahey's poem "PS I See You" with an experimental mixdown of historic tape from and field recordings.

"PS I See You" by Patrick Lahey (2017)

This is a marvelous lost poem written by artist Garner Francis in 1949 and is performed by Dane Reid (www.DaneReidMedia.com). 

An artist I am
We artist,  we paint.
The things we see around us
That no man else has the eyes to see,
But artist just like us.

We paint the hills and mountains,
The trees and grass that grow,
The little birds that fly so high,
The crystal water that runs below.

The broad green plains,
With their swaying trees
And little children that play beneath
The aspect of such scenery,
That only an artist, like us can see

The rugged rocks and mountains stand,
But not all men have see
Their beauty towering stern and grand,
Mysterious and serene

For men will walk between these rocks,
And climb the mountain’s peak
Yet all the existing beauty there,
That only we artists seek.

Written by Garner Francis 1949
In Merryweather
Palm beach.

"An Artist I Am" Garner Francis (1949)

"The Garden of Memory" walk on June 21, 2017 from 5pm to 9pm, celebrates the summer solstice at The Chapel of the Chimes on the hillside in Oakland, California. 

Luscious light and sound filled our experience winding around amid the throngs of visitors of the Chapel of the Chimes columbarium and mausoleum walk. 

We (Mark Head and Anne Delaney) spliced together recorded highlights from our wanderings and explorations. We sang and read from various commemorative plaques, chapels, cloisters, and crypts. Thousands of tiny niches filled with urns, many shaped like books, surrounding gardens and quiet patio-like rooms, give the impression of a vast, light-filled library. The Gregorian cloister holds pages of illuminated manuscripts from 1550, and the small bible collection contains a page from a 1453 Gutenberg Bible. 

The tapestry of sound hints to the beautiful stained glass skylights, pointed arches, mosaics, terraced gardens, spiral columns, narrow staircase, natural stonework, delicate sculptures, and bubbling fountains that abide in architectural splendor at the end of Piedmont Ave in Oakland, California which was originally designed in 1909.

Anne Delaney and Mark Head interweave their sound bouquet recordings and wanderings from "The Garden of Memory" event within the Chapel of the Chimes, June 21, 2017.

"The Garden of Memory" Sound bouquet from Chapel of the Chimes (June 21, 2017)

Courage read by Sandra Alexander and mixdown with magnetic tape fragments and field recordings.

Some day when I’m braver
I’ll do as I please!
I’ll live in a forest
And romp with the trees.

I’ll wear what I choose
And I’ll not mend my hose
Nor cock my hat rightly
Nor powder my nose.

No smart quips from me
While my tea’s being poured,
And I’ll get up and leave
The minute I’m bored.

And when folk lift their eyebrows
And say, “Isn’t she odd?”
I’ll trim up my sleeve
And keep playing with God!

Dorothy De Zouche

"Courage" Dorothy De Zouche (c. 1930)

Mockery by Sara L. Winston. Read by Geremy Dingle and mixed with lost magnetic recordings.

Could this sweet, old wistful lady
With the tired and wrinkled face
And hands so worn and knotty
With gait so void of grace.
Could this aged little mother
With hair as white as snow
Have been a lovely daughter
Not so long ago?

Could she have been a baby,
An infant in a crib?
A child so bright and rosy
Supping with a bib?
Could she have know the thrills
That come with dolls and toys,
Pink dresses trimmed in frills
And other blissful joys?

Could she have felt delight
In love’s awakening?
The bitter nip and smite
Of Cupid’s bow and string?
Could she have been so dainty
In dancing to the tunes
Of a minuet so stately
In stylish pantaloons?

Could this charming maiden
With such agile ease and grace
Be this stooped old woman
With the tired and wrinkled face.
Now her children smile at her -
They don’t think it true
That they, some day, will look the same
To their grandchildren too.

"Mockery" by Sara L. Winston (c. 1930)

Song found on a spool from a 90th wedding anniversary that was recorded in the 60s.

"Loving Raymond"  [c. 1960s]

John Cage on Nature [1969]

Rows and flows of angel hair 
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done 
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down and still somehow
It's cloud's illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all
Moons and Junes and ferries wheels 
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real 
I've looked at love that way
But now it's just another show 
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know 
Don't give yourself away
I've looked at love from both sides now 
From give and take and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud, 
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds 
I've looked at life that way
But now old friends they're acting strange 
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained 
In living every day.
I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
I've looked at life from both sides now 
From up and down, and still somehow 
It's life's illusions I recall 
I really don't know life at all

"Both Sides, Now" family gathering version (1970)

Cathie Kirman recorded Tuesday November 22, 1972 at Suffolk College by Neil Lewbel.

"Geordie" Ballad performed by Cathie Kirman (1971)

Poltroon Press was founded April 1, 1975 by Frances Butler and Alastair Johnston in Berkeley, California and in this poem Tom Raworth pays tribute to Francis and Alastair's unique approach to crafting Artist books,  Logbook and Muted Hawks being two such gems.  Original recordings of Frances singing appear in this audio collage along with Alastair reading the poem with a touch of him playing Gnossiennes at the end. Weavings of Tom Raworth from the Stream Record are dappled throughout.

Sleepy Villa
For Alastair and Frances

The out-of-focus diamond
Whilst interesting
Contributes nothing
To the double el doubt

Rice? Rice!
Is a symbol it means something
Surface out of place
Just not interested

If the whim of the drug
Showed through fashion
In a country whose elegant memories
Slurred thought from pain

Minute reflections would bind 
How many times
If you do not mind
I have this thing about mirrors 

Why not eat here, conscious?
She dissolves into gold
In her reading voice
Mao’s weather has been eliminated

In our society
A freak system
All is not right
Inflation gnaws at the paychecks

Rooms burst into 
An epidemic of auto thefts
Thick spaghetti sauce 
All wholesome ingredients

Remind me of something western
Lots of veg for attraction
Had we known him better
A lot more blank

A dead sea eye agent
Rinsing nostrils with an eye dropper
If my body can’t hold it
I’ll go blackout shadow box

Just these views off the watershed
This is sleepy villa
Slow sleepy villa


Oct. 27th 1976,
Tom Raworth

Copyright 2018 by the Estate of Tom Raworth.
Image from Memorial Tribute broadside Illustrated by Frances Butler and printed by Alastair Johnston

"Sleepy Villa" by Tom Raworth (October 27, 1976)

Usenor performance of imaginary Bach Cantata written before three years of age or earlier. Performed October 11, 1968 and recorded by Varda Ullman from reel to reels from her estate. Varda Ullman is on the faculties of both Cerritos College and Conservatory and produces nationally for National Public Radio and  is the producer, writer, and voice of the UCLA News Service.

[Bach Juvenilia] fragment performed by Usenor (1968)

“Jungle Jimmy” read by Oliver O’Connor Barrett from an old 78rpm Acetate Record from the mid fifties. Six of his original musical compositions are interwoven with his reading of the text. 
This is the ballad about old Jim
His mother quiet disappeared from him
For he was never still a minute
If there was trouble, he was in it.
Scarce a day old he drummed his heels 
And wriggling like a pair of eels. 
He fell smack upon his little head
“Alas,” she cried, “I think he is dead.”
“He is dead” she cried but up he sat.
 “I am going to be an acrobat
 when I am grown up.” He said. Said he.
“That is quiet the jolliest thing to be.”
From that day on he never stopped,
But whirled and skipped and hopped.
And bumped and banged and tripped and tranggled.
Like a peel of bells embrangled. 
“Why can’t he be a studious bare” his mother cried.
“He drives me mad, he never seems to use his head
Except for standing on” she said.
“And if there is one thing that is worse than crime,
It is his dreadful craze to climb.”
Useless were her complaints her boy 
seemed wound up like a clock work toy.
When he was one year old, he climbed upon a window blind
They found him grinning up and down like any circus clown.
When he was two, or not much older. 
Sitting high on Papas shoulder 
Suddenly he gave a cheer
 and sprung upon the chandelier.
Now in the park when he was three 
he used to swing from tree to tree.
So Tarzan like that they nicknamed him 
“Jungle Jim”, or “Jungle Jimmy.”
Though any playground   jungle was much to tame a thing for him,
But as for round-abouts, or swings,
 he thought them very childish things.
When he was four, or there about,
He climbed out on a gutter spout
A special spout I should relate
Out spouting from the Empire State.
When people shrieked to see him there
Our Jimmy calmly combed his hair
Thinking foolish how they fussed 
Just because a fellow’s hair was mussed.
His picture in the new next day 
Made Jimmy’s mother faint away.
And then his father stiff with rage 
Threatened to keep him in a cage.
The boy at last was five years old
A stirring tale must now be told.
One night a fearful fire broke out 
Jim woke his parents with a shout
The stairs are gone, “Come follow me”
And out the window clamored he
They followed and in record time 
young Jimmy showed them how to climb.
“Watch me it is easy, watch my feet, 
It is just like walking down the street.”
They watched and though their hearts were quacking
Took each toe hold he was taking  
Climbed up the wall and then the tile
Which seemed to stretch for miles and miles,
But soon, thanks to Jim’s acrobatics 
Safely had reached their neighbors attics.
“The boys a hero!” the people cried,
His parents nearly burst with pride.
But Jimmy said, “There is nothing to it,
Any acrobat could do it!”

"Jungle Jimmy"  by Oliver O'Connor Barrett (c.1955)

From a reel to reel recording of Terry Borton from "Educational Activities, Inc" mixed with an original improvisation home recording that sounds influenced by the New York School of Music.

"Two Old Crows" Vachel Lindsay read by Terry Bolton, 1966.

Lost home recording released like a flock of doves from magnetic confinement mixed with birds to match the warbling tape and feedback.

"Whispering Hope" found recording [c.1960]

Multiplication of Smiles

Do you know the new smile table?
It’s not very hard to learn
And you don’t need pen or pencil,
Only smile when it’s your turn.

There are gems of priceless value,
There are imitations too;
So, a smile has fullest meaning 
If the one who smiles is true,

Just beyond the mist and rain clouds
Shines the sun in splendor bright,
So, beneath our cares and worries,
Smiles are hidden out of sight.

When you’re weary and discouraged
And the day seems hard to you,
Like a gleam of golden sunshine,
Let the hidden smile break through.

Mary E. Miller

Poem found in a notebook but published in
The Circleville Daily Union-Herald
June 29th, 1926
Recorded January 30, 2021

Wearing face masks and speaking through a gramophone horn, Mark Head and recite Miller's stanzas. Text inspired, the improvisational ambient music accompaniment is played by Anne Delaney on a November 29, 1858 square piano. Photo is triptych of a frame with glass as Anne and Mark smile behind.

"Multiplication of Smiles" (wearing facial masks) Mary E. Miller, 1926.

Lost reel of James Baldwin reading from his essay "The uses of the Blues" mixed with experimental music and excerpts of Leadbelly, Bessie Smith, and Billie Holiday.

James Baldwin reads "The Uses of the Blues"

"As we rode out to Fennario, as we rode out to Fennario, Our captain fell in love with a lady like a dove and he called her by the name of Pretty Peggy-O"

"Peggy O" (c.1970) Lost Reel

Two Merry Little Crickets

Despise no simple thing of Life,
Not e’en a Roadside flower!
Though floods in torrents oft’ may flow,
There’s a blessing in every shower;
Two merry little crickets,
Once mated in my room;
And every night were singing
E’en through the midnight gloom.
Ah! There was something in their music!
That had a certain spell;
And held me with a power,
To share that music swell.
Gladly my heart did greet them,
For my soul was bowed with grief;
And their simple song were bringing,
To my brain a sweet relief:
Indeed, I found a pleasure,
That is hard for me to tell;
And I really think I miss them,
For I learnt to love them well.
Those chirping little creatures,
Did ope’ my heart and eyes,
To many a precious blessing!
That comes from the Great! All Wise.

J.A. Naar
Kingston, Jamaica, 5th of September, 1917

Illustration by Anne Delaney.

"Two Merry Little Crickets" J.A. Naar (c.19170

EARPHEMERA PODCAST: performative artifacts with emblematic soundscapes. Supporting the podcast one wheelchair trip at a time.

ETC-TET

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