If Today old Oscar Wilde were Meaner

I play pop/rock and I play pop/rock real fine—
Who cares what I say, so long as I rhyme—most of the time?
Lemon lime…Venetian blind…THAT PLACENTA'S MINE! 
Who in their right mind thinks for a moment that 
they exceed my reach?

I cover the airwaves, newsstands, displays…
You think you know me, you think you own me…
By God, if you don’t think that you think!
You think you think! Ha ha ha ha!!

I was designed to make you captive;
Lend me your ears and I’ll teach you to hear. 
Come on, let’s get it in gear.  Step up, little girls!
Come on, little boys!  Buy more of my records and throw out your toys!
Life imitates art.  So CONFORM, you little farts!

Who in their right mind thinks for a moment that they exceed my grasp?

I play pop/rock and I play pop/rock real fine.
I say what you want when I think it’s time—when I think it’s time: 
“I love you!”  “I hate you!” You gullible little creatures…
You love it, don’t you?  Don’t you dare say you don’t....
Say, say, say you don’t. 

And, of course, I must throw in a soft part.
Don’t want to kill you, just want to thrill you…
Lingo, boppoh, booloh.  Guess I’m at a loss for words, 
You silly turds!

I work hard to find out where is your soft spot…
Where is your soft spot? 
And when you respond you give substance to me!
Call it the dollars, say it’s the fame, call it something that keeps me sane.

If today old Oscar Wilde were meaner, 
This is close to what the dandy bloke would claim. 
Then he’d show us all his pescaphobic wiener…
And have his lawyers lick the spots 
Right off his name.

If Today Old Oscar Wilde Were Meaner

Honest Men and Fishes

Conjure again the will to sing—
Pierce the layers of silt and sleep…
Sing, my heart, of aletheia

Hear them speak of gods above…
Some of wrath and some of love;
See how on the walls of caves their names are engraved

Let them cleave to what they’re told…
May they savor what they’re sold?
Honest men and fishes know only the sea…

If you’re finned you merely need to part your lips…
If you’re penned you simply need to cast your line into the brine

For many years I believed it was woman 
I needed to follow to find my way home
Now I suppose it’s these uncanny fishes
A silvery thread to the undersea dome

La Boetie died on May twenty-first…
Nothing prevents me from quenching my thirst…
Carve, my pen, through the membrane!

In my rounded room of books
There hangs from my neck today
A pendant with the words “What do I know?”

Let them cleave to what they’re told…
May they savor what they’re sold? 
Honest men and fishes know only the sea…

If you’re finned your merely need to part your lips…
If you’re penned you simply need to cast your line into the brine
 
For many years I believed it was friendship 
I needed to follow to find my way home…
Now I suppose it’s a plot in the margins…
Quizzically viewed by the eyes of a vanishing world.


Honest Men and Fishes 1

In this song, an old man recounts his exploits---during long years of travel and warfare under Alexander the Great.  He is telling this tale to his young grandson, Lysander, as he puts him to sleep.  I recorded this back in the early 90s at Karl Caillouet's studio next to Anderson Fair.  My friend, Max Dyer, is playing cello and Chris Wardwell is playing one of the lead guitar tracks---the one with the volume pedal that sounds like 'whale song'.  I'm doing the other parts: acoustic and electric guitars; bass; vocals, flute.      

Alexander

Doppelganger is a dramatic monologue (delivered by the repressed, earthy psychic double of a Victorian aesthete).  Disturbing buried 'shadow' contents can lunge out at art and poetry devotees (and snobs) from the strangest places, but there's no getting around certain 'shotgun marriages' when an accidental impregnation (or a not so immaculate conception) occurs.  Whether such couplings are 'holy' and fruitful depends less on maintaining our high intellectual and aesthetic standards than upon the courageous descent from those proud heights into terra incognita.

This was recorded in the early 90s at Heights Sound Studio with Karl Cailliouet handling the engineering.  Max Dyer is playing cello, Kuko Miranda is handling percussion,  and I am doing all the rest: guitars, vocals, bass, flute. 

Doppelganger

I wrote this song in 1989, just after moving back to Houston from Manitou Springs, where I had been living for a couple of years.  Max Dyer is playing beautiful cello and electric bass.  Yiannis Efstathiou is providing light percussion and I'm doing the rest: guitars, vocals. 

Rough Cut

This song, one of the first I ever wrote, was composed while I was in my early twenties. Drawing from childhood recollections, the lyric speaks for itself.  It was recorded at Heights Sound Studio by Karl Caillouet in '92.   Max Dyer is featured on cello and I'm playing guitars, flute, and singing.  

Marianne

I wrote this song around 1985 while I was visiting a friend in Munster, Germany.  I came up with the guitar part first and then developed the vocal melody.  Out of that peculiar mood the lyric was born.  This recording was made at Heights Sound Studio in the early 90s under the supervision of Karl Caillouet.  Steve Pare is playing bass and Yiannis Efstathiou is on drums.  I'm playing lead and acoustic guitars and singing.  

The Confession

Recorded at home with Max Dyer contributing the cello track. 

Kali-Yuga

Alone beneath starry sky
Down a road behind the wheel I fly
Forebodings chant in somber strains deep inside of me 
Sending me down the road that wends its way unto the sea
How do such thoughts find a home beneath this cap?
At times I fear my last reserves are being slowly tapped

Outside—a frozen realm; sweat gathers on my brow
No Athena at the helm, no Virgil at my bow
A sinking moon illuminates the new-fallen snow
But in shadows coil the musings that are loath to let me go
How does such aloneness find a seat within this breast?
My wavering belief in this road I still invest

Just a little car on a dark night drive 
Shivers of imploded dreams grinning and snide
Manifold we wander down Time's charter'd lanes
Clutching to each other, bearing up under strain
God, who will rejoice in such a stark and darkened scene?
Still, we hearken for your voice in the springtime green




Kali Yuga

I like to think that this song captures the splendor of growing up Catholic in Shreveport, Louisiana in the 1960s: 


Down in Shreveport, our voices poised to break...
Mark Despot and Parker Brown went with me to catch some snakes
Waist-deep in the murky waters of Bayou Pierre
We grabbed them by the necks with bare hands
And slipped 'em in a pillow case... 
We were so innocent and prepubular, to boot
Playing with little devils in them tubular suits!
But then we were just thirteen

Once when Parker spent the night over at our house  
He pulled out his tallywhacker and proudly displayed it to me
His was longer but I swear mine was thicker
And we had a little contest 
And I won by a stroke!
If they'd known at school some would say we were queers
But others would stop to think and be blushing disagreers
But then we were just thirteen

At compulsory mass in the eighth grade at St. Johns
Mark Despot made a crack about a snake that made me start to laugh
The priest stopped transubstantiating 
And glared with accumulated venom 
As the Brides of Christ grabbed us by our necks!
We were expelled and at home we were flogged
Guilty as charged: exposing laughter to God!
But then we were just thirteen




Boys And Snakes

I wrote this little song in Spain while vacationing there in 2006.  Max Dyer contributed the lovely cello track and I am playing the other parts.  I recorded it at home.  Here is the lyric:   Orfeo (Madrid 1/31/06)

When I was young it was cold out and I never knew quite whom to trust—
I guess we’re never suitably dressed for a wind that can rise in the west
And blow us that one big test that we must fail before we can pass.

Finding my own voice—more a matter of fate than choice—
Me and my guitar—married in a seedy bar—thirty-eight years, so far—
If there’s gods to thank, I thank ‘em.

Nothing left standing after the damning critique…
Then, after years, you reappeared from the ruins,
Less profuse, but more sweet.

To you I owe, Orfeo,
What little I’ve known of life’s staggered glow
After all else vanished beneath the snow.

In a very little room in Madrid—from out of nowhere this little song slid—
I’ll give it a name and a shove, a dash of my rationed love, and beg of the stars above—That it’ll walk on its own feet without me.

Orfeo

Bound and Free (3/15/99—Ides of March)

Leaving all we've known till now—at nightfall—
Huddled on a starlit bow—kinsmen all—
A shiver of fear
You squeeze my hand—
Glistening strand in moonbeams

Our children never will, in days to come, know
Our ancient homeland, leveled in one blow—
I'm agreed—we must flee—
God tries our souls
God tries our very souls


All the omens favor safe landfall—
If only He would bring an end to this rainfall—
My people are strong—
Though not as fierce as the sea:
That is why we still cling to hope

To be a roaming band within a frail bark
Upon a dipping wave, blind in a dark, 
Is but to be the creature “man”—
Our souls are bound— 
Our souls are brave and free


Bound And Free

This little tune, written in the early 90s, is set in a bar in South Louisiana at closing time in a bar.  Two old fellows--friends for years--are talking as they wrap up a Cajun poker game called 'Booray.'  The wife of one of the gents comes in, takes a seat nearby, and waits for him to finish up before taking him back home. 

Booray


Ahh…there she is!  Miss Poker Face…
Carryin’ that ole keychain with her canna’ mace.
I love that woman…she’s hard as nails,
With her rattlesnake wit and them damn pony tails.

She just sat over there and nodded…she won’t bug us till we’re through…
Grab lil’ Cindy, tell her to bring her a brew.

She’s had it hard…s’pose I have too---
Are you gonna play that card, or whatcha gonna do?

Now, Bill, I don’t know what you think about me…
But I’ve known you forty years if I’ve known you for three.
Now, I’ma tellya something an’ you keep it to yourself.
Ain’t no need to whisper this to nobody else:
I woke up…let’s see…last Thursday night
An’ she wudn’ in bed and there wudn’ much light,
But I could sorta make her out at the end of the hall…
Sittin’ all bunched up on the floor with her shawl.
Now, she didn’t know that I was awake
An’ I sure’s hell didn’t know what to make 
Of them hair-raising sobs that sputtered and tore
From the gut of that woman bunched up on the floor.

Pass me that lighter, there, willya Bill?
Seems I lost track…ain’t it your deal?

Willya look at her sittin’ there…hey, not so fast…
See how she sits like a bronze statue cast, 
Starin’ into space within space within space…
Now, who coulda’ chiseled so stony a face?

I ‘spect I best hurry and get to the point…
From the looks of that barkeep, they’re closing the joint.
Well, I pulled down the sheet and put on my slippers…
I looked down at her feet and there I saw scissors.
She’d dug up a photo she kept of her Paw
An’ cut it to pieces…wait, there’s more that I saw:
Somethin’, I guess, must have sorely upset her
Cuz’ she’d tried to Scotch-tape the mess back together…
A hammer that bruised something softer than skin
Drove Little Miss Poker Face deep deep within…
An’ made her squat low in a ball on the floor…
An’ made her tears flow in the hall near the door.

Well, there’s my story…let’s skedaddle from here…
When I get to talkin’ I can rattle an ear.
But just look at her sittin’ there in the chair so straight…
Pain never really never disappears, it just circulates.
 

Booray

This song was written while I was living in lovely Manitou Springs, Colorado, years ago.  Recorded at my apartment.

Response To Housman

Stay Chill (June 7, 1994)

So it's true:
I moved fast
When I moved on you

You don't "know 'bout me"
I could say that, too
But I dove into the sea 
And looked around for you

You could call me off
Like a dog
Like a 'date'! 
(wait, wait)

Wait awhile; cool your feet, baby
In my sweat and tears 
Can't ya see?....love you....how can
you hear me crying, and
Stay chill?

I don't know where I am now
Is this love or confusion?
(thank you, Jimi)

I could be real high...
I could be so low...
I could live with lies...
I could fall with 'no'...
(no, no, no)

Baby, take good care
What you're sayin'
What you're doin'

Can't ya see?....love You....how can
you hear me crying, and
Stay chill?

Stay Chill

Falling Song (68 Remix)

This song was composed in 1986 for the wonderfully spirited and artistically gifted mother of my best pal, shortly before her early death at the age of 48.  Herta grew up in Nazi Germany and moved to the U.S. after the war with her American serviceman husband.  This recording was made on my little four-track Tascam Portastudio (cassette).  I'm playing all the instruments (guitars, bass, flute) and singing.  Apparently, I liked watery effect I was able to get from an old Roland tape echo machine, which I wish I had held onto.  (LYRICS BELOW)

Herta's Passage

You will agree that life veils more than she lets us see
And a seasoned fool can deliver more clues 
Than a pundit who never scuffs up his shoes.
When we're standing on a moonlit pier
Something whispers to the listening ear...
It says, "Hold onto my hand,
"Settle down and gaze your fill
"At the plans I've laid
"I want to show you more rooms 
"In the house I've made
"And I love you 
"And I've been with you
All along."

Herta's Passage

I Only Slipped Once

Her hair so thick and wavy and her eyes as blue could be
I seen her by the jukebox and my heart, it skipped a beat.
And when she turned and found me gawkin', she blushed but smiled demurely...
Right then I knew I had a choice, but my scruples did desert me.
I stole away from Fred and Lou and unbound my buttoned collar---
And in a corner, propped my cue, then went to change a dollar.
To the music box I hankered as she was just then leavin'
With a look that all but certified what this damn ole head was not believin'.
A magic sort of worked its spell over the silly things we uttered...
And when our faces pressed together and we kissed, I think I shuddered.
Now, my wife has been a mother through two big dogs' demise---
And there's something kinda steady 'bout the look that's in her eyes...

Chorus:
In this Godless world of honky tonks,
Pretty girls and drunks...
I thank the Lord, my Saviour, I's 
Blest to only slip once.

Maybe she wouldn't have me gutted like a trout if my story was full-told,
But I know it'd wound her heart and make her think she's growin' old.
So I'll do what I must to keep this big ole house a home,
Despite this burden in my britches that makes me want to roam
To the other side of town where my Barbara Nell's alone.

In this Godless world of honky tonks,
Pretty girls and drunks,
I thank the Lord, my Saviour, I's 
Blest to only slip once.

I Only Slipped Once

Here's my cover of Paul McCartney's "Blackbird"

Blackbird

This is a rough demo of an instrumental piece for guitar and violin/cello that I wrote over the past couple of weeks.  The voice is sketching the violin part.

Paul DeFatta

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