Vacation PSTSS: "Pictures of You"

Come early Monday morning, we'll be hitting the road, to begin a 3500-mile-or-thereabouts round trip out West. Our destination is the Pacific Northwest--specifically Spokane, Washington, for a big family reunion. Along the way we plan on stopping and seeing the aquarium in Denver, checking in with old friends and relatives in Wyoming, and hopefully making it all the way out Portland to celebrate our 15th anniversary with a stop at my friend Nick's new restaurant, Kenny and Zuke's. As for the reunion part...well, yes, that's right, we did have one of these just last year in Utah, and we drove all the way to that one and back as well. The driving isn't actually that much of a problem (even with these gas prices, it's still cheaper than flying when you include the four children); we've been throwing the kids into the car and racking up the miles for as long as we've been a family. But I admit I do wish these things would stop being planned in late July and August, which is just when the tomatoes are ready for canning, and besides, after a few years of these westward journeys, Melissa's family--who are almost all to the east of us--deserve a visit.

Even with the wear and tear and days in the car, I think we're looking forward to this trip. We like seeing the country; we like being our own little family unit for a while, just plugging along, seeing the sites, stopping when we're tired, driving into the night when we can. As long as it's not Christmas, hitting the road is something we're okay with. I don't think Melissa and I will ever be bone-deep fans of traveling; we like coming home and being back in the place where we belong too much! But traveling does give us a chance to see other places, and how people make homes for themselves there. There's a kind of romanticism to it, I admit, and even the occasional screaming-kid fit doesn't seem to shake us of it.

Way back when we lived in Washington DC while I was in graduate school, Melissa and I went to see a show featuring the Red Clay Ramblers, a wonderfully innovative bluegrass and folk stringband based in North Carolina, but which has made a quite name for itself over the decades. I picked up a recording of theirs that evening, titled simply Live, recorded in 1997 and released in 2001. It included a fantastic tune by Bland Simpson, an English professor, composer, and pianist who often plays with the band: "Pictures for You." Nominally a love song, it's actually a tribute to being on the road while always thinking of one own place and people back home. And as an added bonus for me, the paths Simpson was traveling down his mind as he wrote this song are paths that I know pretty well--the roads and train tracks and mountain paths and rivers around Washington and Oregon, which, as much as Kansas is growing on me, will always remain a homeland of mine:

I'm going out west for a while--
riding alone, though, that ain't my style.

Just 'fore I left, I heard what you said:
"Keep you eyes open; never forget
there's someone back east." Oh I'm missing you so;
tell you what I see wherever I go.

Like the sun going down over Boundary Bay,
that big barn in Washington burstin' with hay.
Oh the Columbia River, all indigo blue...
I took every one of these pictures for you.

Oh crossing the desert again--
pulled up alongside of a hundred-car train.

Burlington-Northern, the Cotton Belt too;
let Southern serve the south--baby I'll be servin' you.
Going to race that old train, probably come out ok...
another story to tell you, got to tell you today.

'Bout the sun going down over Boundary Bay,
that big barn in Washington burstin' with hay.
Oh the Columbia River, all indigo blue...
I took every one of these pictures for you.

That day coming through the Cascades--
got tears in my eyes, wherever I gazed.

I saw you in the fir trees, that blanket this land;
I saw you everywhere: I was in the palm of your hand.
Came boltin' down Snoqualmie Pass about noon,
surrounded by mountains, singin' this tune.

'Bout the sun going down over Boundary Bay,
that big barn in Washington burstin' with hay.
Oh the Columbia River, all indigo blue...
I took every one of these pictures for you.

Some might have forgotten--that's something I would never do...
I took every one of these pictures for you.

I'm sure we'll take plenty of pictures while we're on this trip. Maybe I'll post some once we're back. Until then, take care, and thanks for reading.

Friday PSTSS: "Allentown"

I suppose if I'm going to share a thoughtful bit of pop songwriting that pays tribute to the struggles faced by America's farmers, then I ought to do the same for a song that focuses on America's Rust Belt workers as well. Billy Joel doesn't have any more of an authentic understanding of the history and troubles of the steelworkers of Allentown and Bethlehem, PA, than Don Henley did of the farmers of Des Moines or Omaha, but that doesn't mean the story he tells is false or meaningless. Quite the contrary, in fact.

This comes off of Joel's 1982 album The Nylon Curtain: probably his most ambitious recording ever, certainly the one where he tried his hardest to achieve some sort of Beatlesesque mix of pop craftsmanship, socially conscious lyrics, and rock and roll experimentation. Some find it pretentious, a reminder that Joel might have been a more respected pop artist--and maybe just plain a happier person--if he'd been born ten years earlier and had been able to start his career cranking out Brill Building hits in the 1960s along with Neil Diamond, Carole King, and Bobby Hart. Perhaps; I can't say I'm his greatest fan. But still, he's written some fine stories to go along with his excellent tunes over the years, and I say this is one of his best.

Well we're living here in Allentown,
and they're closing all the factories down.
Out in Bethlehem they're killing time:
filling out forms,
standing in line.

Well our fathers fought the Second World War.
Spent their weekends on the Jersey Shore.
Met our mothers at the USO:
asked them to dance,
danced with them slow.
And we're living here in Allentown.

But the restlessness was handed down,
and it's getting very hard to stay....

Well we're waiting here in Allentown
for the Pennsylvania we never found.
For the promises our teachers gave:
if we worked hard,
if we behaved.

So the graduations hang on the wall.
But they never really helped us at all.
No they never taught us what was real:
iron and coke,
chromium steel.
And we're waiting here in Allentown.

But they've taken all the coal from the ground,
and the union people crawled away....

Every child had a pretty good shot
to get at least as far as their old man got.
Something happened on the way to that place--
they threw an American flag in our face....

Well I'm living here in Allentown,
and it's hard to keep a good man down.
But I won't be getting up today....

And it's getting very hard to stay....
And we're living here in Allentown.

Friday PSTSS: "A Month of Sundays"

Having just written something (an, as usual, much-too-lengthy something) on farming and food, here's short, oft-overlooked, beautiful pop creation by Don Henley off his 1984 album, Building the Perfect Beast. People know the big hits off this record, now nearly 25 years old--"The Boys of Summer," "All She Wants to Do is Dance," "Sunset Grill"--but I like best of all this musically slight, haunting, minor-key, stream-of-consciousness number, the only tune on the album Henley wrote entirely by himself. I'm a lot wiser than when I first heard to the ways the struggles of farmers and others close to the land can be turned into stereotypical liberal agitprop, but amid all the tropes Henley wheels out for their usual sad effect, the song's lyrics still say something worth hearing: something about growing food and growing children, about banks and machines and wars, about transformations social and economic, and most of all about the passing of seasons--how it always happens, and how it always hurts.

I used to work for Harvester;
I used to use my hands.
I used to make the tractors and the combines
that plowed and harvested this great land.

Now I see my handiwork on the block
everywhere I turn.
And I see the clouds cross the weathered faces
and I watch the harvest burn.

I quit the plant in '57;
had some time for farmin' then.
Banks back then was lendin' money--
the banker was the farmer's friend.

And I've seen dog days and dusty days;
late spring snow and early fall sleet;
I've held the leather reins in my hands
and I've felt the soft ground under my feet.

Between the hot, dry weather and the taxes and the Cold War
it's been hard to make ends meet.
But I always put the clothes on our backs;
I always put the shoes on our feet.

My grandson, he comes home from college;
he says, "We get the government we deserve."
My son-in-law just shakes his head and says,
"That little punk, he never had to serve."

And I sit here in the shadow of the suburbia
and look out across these empty fields.
I sit here in earshot of the bypass and all night
I listen to the rushin' of the wheels.

The big boys, they all got computers:
got incorporated, too.
Me, I just know how to raise things;
that was all I ever knew.

Now, it all comes down to numbers;
now I'm glad that I have quit.
Folks these days just don't do nothin'
simply for the love of it.

I went into town of the Fourth of July.
Watched 'em parade past the Union Jack;
watched 'em break out the brass and beat on the drum--
one step forward and two steps back.

And I saw a sign on Easy Street,
it said "Be Prepared to Stop.
Pray for the Independent Little Man."
But I don't see next year's crop.

And I sit here on the back porch in the twilight
and I hear the crickets hum.
I sit and watch the lightning in the distance
but the showers never come.

I sit here and listen to the wind blow;
I sit here and rub my hands.
I sit here and listen to the clock strike,
and I wonder when I'll see my companion again.

Special Independence Day PSTSS: "America, My Truck"

One day early, and continuing with our current vaguely Canadian theme, here's a Friday PSTSS for July 4th, a tribute to America from Authentic Canadian Treasure, Rick Moranis. Click on his website, hit the "new song" link, and sing along with "America, My Truck." (And enjoy the fireworks, everybody.)

America she got muscle
She tough and strong like steel
America can climb so high
She never lose her feel.

America pull more than her weight
Plow through anything get in the way
America the workhorse of the world
And the very, very best at play.

But America can spin her wheels
And sometimes she get stuck
I love America--
America's my truck.

America she got power
Never let her ever run right outta gas
Headlights shine to the future
Burnin' tracks, leavin' dust in the past.

America she love football
She drops her tail so sweet
It's the Fourth of July, there's fire in the sky
So save me a power seat.

But America can stall and spin
On patches of bad luck
I love America--
America's my truck.

No, Lincoln didn't drive no Lincoln
And Rosa just rode a bus
And Martin had a dream
Nixon liked to scheme
Try to make the country a better place for us.

Now Jack and brother Bobby, they had a vision
So Neil took a walk on the moon
And Louis still wails
Right through Louisiana gales
You can't stop no Dixieland tune.

But America needs a tune-up
All those shocks and brakes, the way she steers
Some tender loving care, cleaner water, fresher air
Keep on course for a couple more years.

But America, needs more than an overhaul
Ain't been the same since that day she was struck
I love American--
But with this much wear and tear I can--
And an interest rate that's fair I can--
Only in America--
Can I get me a brand new truck.

I love America--
My brand new truck.

And if you don't care for this Canuck's snarky but ultimately kind opinion of America (either because it's not mean enough to satisfy your anger, or because it's not quite mean enough for you get all defensive and angry about), then maybe a bit of Fry and Laurie's hammy bitter satire will do it for you...

Friday PSTSS: "Summertime Blues"

My computer has finally released by the Information Technology people, who have pronounced clean after a massive virus attack this week. And it really is clean--of not just viruses, but also of cookies, passwords, my address book, and half my software, all of which I need to reconstruct. So there's my afternoon, right there.

My wife just called, frazzled and tired. The girls this week have had sleep-overs, crafts, library trips, birthday parties, trips to the park, swimming lessons, and they're bored. Any ideas?, she asked. Throw them in the back yard and tell them to entertain themselves, maybe?

It's the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Sometimes, even nice summer days can be too long.

In honor of the day (and the hope that it'll end soon), let's remember one of the earliest and best songs of summertime frustration. Eddie Cochran's short and sweet rock-and-roll masterpiece appeared as a B-side way back in 1958, and given the career of the song over the past 50 years, no doubt it'll eventually be convered by everyone.

I'm gonna raise a fuss I'm gonna raise a holler,
about a workin' all summer just to try to earn a dollar.
Every time I call my baby and try to get a date
my boss says "No dice son, you gotta work late."
Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do,
but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues.

Well my mom and pop told me, "Son you gotta make some money,
if you want to use the car to go ridin' next Sunday."
Well I didn't go to work, told the boss I was sick--
"Well you can't use the car 'cause you didn't work a lick."
Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do,
but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues.

I'm gonna take two weeks, gonna have a fine vacation.
I'm gonna take my problem to the United Nations.
Well, I called my congressman and he said, quote:
"I'd like to help you son but you're too young to vote."
Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do,
but there ain't no cure for the summertime blues.

I suppose I could embed an old grainy clip of Eddie himself here, but why? Here's the Who, from the Monterey International Pop Festival in 1967. Enjoy.

Friday PSTSS: "Birdhouse in Your Soul"

This actually isn't my favorite tune off of They Might Be Giant's 1990 album Flood, which actually isn't my favorite TMBG's album either. For the former, I think, the answer is either the surrealistic "They Might Be Giants" (if only for the completely mad line, "Everyone needs to hang on tighter / just to keep from being thrown to the wolves"), the trenchantly minimalistic "Minimum Wage" (which consists of nothing but a whip cracking), or "Particle Man" (which I can't listen to now without hearing the Bob's brilliant calliope cover, complete with Matthew "Bob" Stull shouting out in the middle of song, for no apparent reason, "Waiter!"). Truly, it's a great recording, stuffed with brilliant, funny, weird tunes. But as I said, out of all their recordings, I'm not sure it's their best, I think; that title I would give to their 2002 kids' album, No!, if only because I love singing "Where Do They Make Balloons?" with my kids.

Still, here we go with TMBG's biggest mainstream hit. A tale of love and obsession, of history and theology, it's the sort of thing that Ray Bradbury could have turned into a fabulous, freaky sci-fi/horror/romance. ("Honey, our little night light has been talking to me, and I think it loves me, and I think it's going to kill you to get at me." "That's nice, dear.")

I'm your only friend--
I'm not your only friend--
but I'm a little glowing friend--
but really I'm not actually your friend--
but I am...

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
who watches over you.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.
Not to put too fine a point on it:
say I'm the only bee in your bonnet.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

I have a secret to tell
from my electrical well;
it's a simple message and I'm leaving out the whistles and bells.
So the room must listen to me
filibuster vigilantly.
My name is blue canary one note spelled l-i-t-e.
My story's infinite--
like the Longines Symphonette it doesn't rest.

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
who watches over you.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.
Not to put too fine a point on it:
say I'm the only bee in your bonnet.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

I'm your only friend--
I'm not your only friend--
But I'm a little glowing friend--
But really I'm not actually your friend--
But I am...

There's a picture opposite me
of my primitive ancestry,
which stood on rocky shores and kept the beaches shipwreck free.
Though I respect that a lot
I'd be fired if that were my job,
after killing Jason off and countless screaming Argonauts.
Bluebird of friendliness--
like guardian angels its always near.

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch
who watches over you.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.
Not to put too fine a point on it:
say I'm the only bee in your bonnet.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

(And while you're at it,
keep the nightlight on inside
the birdhouse in your soul.)

Not to put too fine a point on it:
say I'm the only bee in your bonnet.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you're at it)
who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)

Not to put too fine a point on it:
say I'm the only bee in your bonnet.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

Blue canary in the outlet by the light switch (and while you're at it)
who watches over you (keep the nightlight on inside the)
Make a little birdhouse in your soul (birdhouse in your soul)

Not to put too fine a point on it:
say I'm the only bee in your bonnet.
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.

Friday PSTSS: "This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)"

I wasn't a Talking Heads fan back when they were still together and making music; in fact, the only recordings of their's I own are the two-cd collection Sand in the Vaseline (which includes pretty much every song of theirs that ever got so much as a moment of radio play) and their awesome live album, Stop Making Sense, both of which I picked up used long after the Heads had dissolved and gone their separate ways. (Wait, I take that back: a friend of mine a couple of years ago burned me a copy of The Name of This Band is Talking Heads, a collection of early live tracks; it's definitely a good record, if only for completion's sake.) They were, to be sure, an enormously accomplished and fascinating band, but there's also something distant and creepy and nihilistic about much of their music, despite how terrificly cool and fun a lot of their songs are. Much of that creepiness surely was the result of David Byrne, whom comes off in most of the accounts I've read as a seriously weird (and not in a friendly way) individual. The tortured artist and all that? Maybe. He writes good tunes though.

I liked this song (which was originally recorded for Speaking in Tongues) when I first heard it; a clever and funky love song, I thought. But I didn't really get it, didn't really grasp it as the pop gem it is, until I was married and in graduate school, reading philosophy and thinking about hermeneutics and interpretation and "naivete," trying to move forward in my relationship with my wife, and listening to Shawn Colvin. She covered this song on her album Cover Girl, and her plaintive, beautiful rendition of it--climaxing with her reading of the line, "you've got a face with a view"--sent me reeling, and sent me back to the original another listen. It is, simply, one of the most duplicitously simple (indeed, "naive," in what I would argue is the full, Ricoeurian sense) odes to belonging and being in the right place at the right time and the lucky (or is it?) happenstance of love that I can imagine. It's that good. (At one point I was actually going to include the lyrics in the acknowledgments section of my dissertation, but then decided that not even a true Heads fan would be that pretentious.)

Home is where I want to be;
pick me up and turn me round.
I feel numb--burn with a weak heart--
I guess I must be having fun.

The less we say about it the better--
make it up as we go along.
Feet on the ground;
head in the sky;
it's ok--I know nothing's wrong . . . nothing.
Hi yo--I got plenty of time.
Hi yo--you got light in your eyes.

And you're standing here beside me.
I love the passing of time.
Never for money;
always for love;
cover up and say goodnight . . . say goodnight.

Home is where I want to be;
but I guess I'm already there.
I come home--she lifted up her wings--
guess that this must be the place.

I can't tell one from another--
did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time,
before we were born;
if someone asks, this where I'll be . . . where I'll be .
Hi yo--we drift in and out.
Hi yo--sing into my mouth.

Out of all those kinds of people:
you've got a face with a view.
I'm just an animal,
looking for a home.
Share the same space for a minute or two.

And you love me till my heart stops;
love me till I'm dead.
Eyes that light up;
eyes look through you;
cover up the blank spots--hit me on the head . . . ah ooh.

Friday PSTSS: "Summer's Here"

As I said just yesterday, the academic summer has begun for me. Summer classes and workshops loom in June and July, plus various committee and prep work. And there's stuff at home to do, and stuff to do at church, and so on and so forth. But hey, I'm looking out my window as the Kansas wind rustles the treetops across the Friends University campus, and our complete-boondoggle-but-still-happily-deposited check from the Bush administration arrived this morning (so we've got the Discover and Visa cards paid off for once!), and all the rainstorms lately have been arriving at night and the days have been sunny and fine, and in general, I'm feeling great. Time to have some fun.

This is only the second James Taylor tune I've done a PSTSS on, which is surprising, since Taylor is the one pop artist whose recordings I can claim to have a near-complete collection of. This is a fine, lazy tune off 1981's Dad Loves His Work; not one of his best efforts (which isn't surprising: his marriage to Carly Simon was falling apart at the time, and he was addicted to heroin to boot), but filled with good music nonetheless: "Her Town Too" is something of a melancholic masterpiece, and "I Will Follow" took on brilliant new life in live concerts, with Arnold McCuller, one of Taylor's regular back-up singers, taking the lead. But for now, let's stick with this number and celebrate a time to grow and play and recharge and enjoy the blue skies. I won't be joining in the beer drinking, and autumn is actually my favorite season, but as far as everything else goes, this song says something I can definitely sing along with.

Summer's here;
I'm for that.
Got my rubber sandals,
got my straw hat.
Got my cold beer--
I'm just glad that it's here.

Summer's here;
that suits me fine.
It may rain today
but I don't mind.
It's my favorite time of the year
and I'm glad that it's here.

Old man wintertime,
he goes so slow:
it's ten degrees below, you know.
You can take your ice and snow
and let my balmy breezes blow.

Yeah, the water is cold but I've been in;
baby, lose the laundry and jump on in.
I mean all God's children got skin--
and it's summer again.

Old man wintertime,
he goes so slow:
it's ten degrees below, you know.
You can take your ice and snow
and let my balmy breezes blow.

Summer's here;
I'm for that.
Got my rubber sandals,
got my straw hat.
Drinking cold beer--
man, I'm just that I'm here.

It's my favorite time of the year,
and I'm glad that it's here, yeah.

Friday PSTSS: "Garden Song"

It's May. A couple of days this week, the temps here in Wichita went over 80 degrees. Last night we had a good old-fashioned spring/summer thunderstorm, which drenched all the flowers my wife just put in. And this week, we'll be getting serious about putting our garden together. We've already planted some blackberry bushes and spinach and herbs, but this week we're thinking corn, cucumbers, zucchini, cantaloupes, tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, onions, potatoes, maybe even watermelons or pumpkins. We've got more space to work with this year than last, and we got a neighbor doing some extensive landscaping to donate close to a ton of fresh dirt for us to work with. We've got some high hopes for this year, that's for sure.

There's a lot that someone with my kind of philosophical sensibilities could say (and probably has said, many times before) about gardening, but for the moment, I think I'll let John Denver--what, the original granola boy? yes indeed--do the talking. "Garden Song" wasn't ever released as a single, so far as I know; it comes from his self-titled album John Denver. A simple , beautiful, and wise song...and gardening is, after all, a simple pleasure, one that--if you do right--will bless you with beauty and wisdom (and good food!) which is something everyone needs.

Inch by inch, row by row--
gonna make this garden grow.
All it takes is a rake and a hoe
and a piece of fertile ground.
Inch by inch, row by row--
Someone bless the seeds I sow.
Someone warm them from below,
'til the rain comes tumbling down.

Pulling weeds and picking stones--
man is made of dreams and bones.
Feel the need to grow my own
'cause the time is close at hand.
Grain for grain, sun and rain--
find my way in nature's chain,
to my body and my brain,
to the music from the land.

Plant your rows straight and long,
thicker than with prayer and song.
Mother Earth will make you strong
if you give her love and care.
Old crow watching hungrily,
from his perch in yonder tree.
In my garden I'm as free
as that feathered thief up there.

Inch by inch, row by row--
gonna make this garden grow.
All it takes is a rake and a hoe
and a piece of fertile ground.
Inch by inch, row by row--
Someone bless the seeds I sow.
Someone warm them from below,
'til the rain comes tumbling down.

Friday PSTSS: "American Skin (41 Shots)"

There are a lot of performers and bands that I have never seen live, and wish I had the time and money to do so. And there are a lot of famous concerts I would love to have seen, and a lot of live albums whose recording I wish I could have been a part of, even if that just means having been one of a few hundred or a few thousand voices cheering in the background. I'm thinking in particular of Joe Jackson's Big World, the Rolling Stone's Stripped, Robyn Hitchcock's Robyn Sings, or either of the two shows recorded on the Police's Live! But as far as I'm concerned, one show--or rather, one series of shows--and one recording that came out of it stands above them all: any of the ten concerts Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band played at Madison Square Gardens, June 12 through July 1, 2000, at the conclusion of their massive "Reunion" tour, the concerts which gave us the magisterial Live in New York City. And of course, as anyone can tell you, the highlight of that album, packed as it is with brilliant live music, was Springsteen's long, initially haunting, then angry, then ferocious, then finally mournful tribute to the 1999 police shooting victim Amadou Diallo....and, in a larger sense, to all Americans who have to navigate worlds of crime, brutality, suspicion, anger, false judgment, danger, and racism every day: "American Skin (41 Shots)." And really, there's nothing more to say than that.

I'm including the lyrics as they are sung on the album, excluding part of the intro and the fadeout; if you don't catch the spirit of the live performance of the song, there's almost no point in the lyrics at all.

41 shots...
41 shots...
41 shots...
41 shots.

41 shots;
and we'll take that ride,
'cross this bloody river
to the other side.

41 shots;
cut through the night.
You're kneeling over his body in the vestibule,
praying for his life.

Well, is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life.

It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)--
it ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)--
no secret my friend:
you can get killed just for living in
your American skin.

41 shots...
41 shots...
41 shots...
41 shots...

41 shots.
Lena gets her son ready for school.
She says "On these streets, Charles
you've got to understand the rules.

If an officer stops you, promise me
you'll always be polite,
and that you'll never ever run away.
Promise Mama you'll keep your hands in sight."

Well, is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life.

It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)--
it ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)--
no secret my friend:
you can get killed just for living in
your American skin.

41 shots...
41 shots...
41 shots...
41 shots.

41 shots...
41 shots...
41 shots...
41 shots.

Is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it in your heart,
is it in your eyes?

It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)--
it ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)--
it ain't no secret (it ain't no secret).

41 shots;
and we'll take that ride,
'cross this bloody river
to the other side.

41 shots;
got my boots caked in this mud.
We're baptized in these waters (baptized in these waters)
and in each other's blood (and in each other's blood).

Is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life.

It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)--
it ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)--
it ain't no secret (it ain't no secret):
no secret my friend.
You can get killed just for living in--
you can get killed just for living in--
you can get killed just for living in--
you can get killed just for living in--
you can get killed just for living in
your American skin.

Friday PSTSS: "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald"

Hey, I don't care. You're sitting there saying, "What?! This old piece of singer-songwriter sludge from the 70s?" Damn straight. Out of all the storytelling songs released by innumerable oh-so-smooth-yet-somehow-still-moderately-authentic pop-folk artists during the 60s and 70s, this is my absolute favorite. My apologies to Cat Stevens, Neil Diamond, Jim Croce, Don McLean, Glen Campbell, Joni Mitchell, and all the rest, but Lightfoot has you beat. Do I have to mention where to find the recording? It was originally released on Lightfoot's 1976 Summertime Dream, but it's probably included on about a thousand compilations and anthologies by now. And the story? Besides the fact that the SS Edmund Fitzgerald was actually heading to Detroit to deliver it's load of iron ore, and only after that was heading to Cleveland to dock for the winter, Lightfoot got pretty much everything right. I know--just read here.

I've visited the Upper Peninsula, and been to the Sault (Soo) Locks in Sault Ste. Marie, but never to the Shipwreck Museum at Whitefish Bay. Someday, perhaps. Maybe I'll sing the song for my kids if we ever make it. (Yes, if you're asking--I had pretty much the whole thing memorized by the time I was thirteen. FM radio will do these things for you.)

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
when the skies of November turn gloomy.

With a load of iron ore--26,000 tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty.
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
when the gales of November came early.

The ship was the pride of the American side
coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most,
with a crew and a captain well seasoned.

Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland--
and later that night when the ships bell rang,
could it be the north wind they'd been feeling?

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
and a wave broke over the railing;
and every man knew, as the captain did, too,
t'was the witch of November come stealing.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the gales of November came slashing.
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck,
saying "Fellows, it's too rough to feed ya."
At 7PM a main hatchway caved in;
he said "Fellas, it's been good to know ya."

The captain wired in he had water coming in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd fifteen more miles behind her.

They might have split up or they might have capsized;
they may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings,
in the rooms of her ice water mansion;
old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams:
the islands and bays are for sportsmen.

And farther below Lake Ontario
takes in what Lake Erie can send her.
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
with the gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
in the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral:
the church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early.

Not a Friday PSTSS, Just a Song That Got Stuck in My Head a Couple of Days Ago, Which Has Prompted a Burning Question That I Need Answered

Were Floyd and Janice a couple? I mean, in Muppet world, were they together? Was that the storyline? I'm thinking they were, but I can't find any hard evidence.

Good Friday PSTSS: "Booker"

Harry Connick, Jr.'s 1994 album, She, was a departure for him; up until then, he'd been the new Frank Sinatra, a sexy big band crooner, tailor-made for the new romantics of the When Harry Met Sally crowd. This album was a return to his New Orleans roots (and not his last return, as things turned out); it's a stew of jazz, rock and roll, blues and funk, with many fine songs. This Good Friday however, I'm drawn to the final, most sober track on the album, "Booker." The lyrics were written by New Orleans lyricist and musician Ramsey McLean, and nominally Connick is turning McLean's words into a very personal tribute to one of his own teachers, the New Orleans piano legend James Booker, with Connick playing every instrument on the recording, often borrowing from Booker's style. Yet there's something more going on there, something spooky, something spiritual. It is a song about death, about endings; the otherwise nameless "Booker" of the lyrics is damned, dying, in prison--or is he? In any case, he cannot escape his fate, though those who would succor and heal and free him are all readily at hand. There is no let up from the sense of something terrible and unavoidable closing in. Most of the words are spoken rather than sung, backed up usually by only a single drum and some monotonous piano chords, and even when, following the second stanza, the tune explodes into a wild boogie-woogie rhythm, something haunting still lurks: the piano drives (hammers?) forward harshly, ever faster, almost hysterically, like someone dancing madly (on their grave?), ending with a glissando into a minor key that brings us back to the lyrics feeling shaken, not exhilarated. And then the crushing drum beat begins again, this time backed by a softly wailing bass line, and we are carried (like a body?) through the final stanza to the end.

I've not the slightest idea if any of this would make sense to McLean or Connick, and I certainly have no idea what their religious feelings about this song or anything else may be. But this particular Friday, I wonder if anyone can grow up in New Orleans and not have some deep sense of sin, pain, regret, and other broken things.

Have a blessed Easter, everyone.

And the warden said,
"He won't need a cell:
he has the key.
There's no harsher sentence--
the man's doing life
in the first degree."

Some people seek to set blame.
Some just accept their part.
And now you know why Booker
died
of a broken heart.

And the priest said,
"I can take confession:
but not the sin.
The church is a shelter--
not the faith, son,
that's within."

Some people pray for fortune and fame.
Some just play a part.
And now you know why Booker
died
of a broken heart.

And the doctor said,
"I can see you're hurt
just by looking at you.
Pain we can help,
but for hurt?
There's nothing we can do."

Some people pick up the pieces.
Some just leave them apart.
And now you know why Booker...
now you know why Booker...
now you know why Booker...
died
of a broken heart.

Special St. Patrick's Day PSTSS: "Lily of the West"

Sometime in the late 1980s or early 1990s, I discovered the Chieftains. No, I'm not Irish (not even a little bit, unless you want to go a long ways back); discovering the music of this acclaimed Irish folk band just seemed to be something a lot of people I knew were doing at the time. Did all the intellectually aspiring, culturally discontented, youthful middle-class white people of America do the same around then? Probably not, but an awful lot did. "World music" wasn't so much a present reality for most of us at that time as it was something that all the hip pop artists we listened to--Paul Simon, Graceland; Sting, Nothing Like the Sun; Peter Gabriel, So--were gesturing towards, and it was probably inevitable that their radio success would allow the actual international folk artists they grooved on to experience a little of my beloved MOR American attention themselves. (Did I own a Ladysmith Black Mambazo album? Darn straight I did, and so did you, or else your locker partner or roommate did.)

Point being, there came a time when the Chieftains crossed my radar screen, and after I dipped into their enormous discography a little, I was hooked. They've never, so far as I know, had any kind of straightforward pop success anywhere...but that doesn't mean that some of the finest rock, country, blues, jazz and folk artists of the world haven't leaped at the chance to go into the studio with them, to try to share in some of their Celtic wizardry and raw musicianship. In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I could cite a dozen collaborations that, in a better world, would have been huge international hits, but I'm going to stick with one my earliest favorites from their oeuvre: a recording of the multitalented Mark Knopfler joining the Chieftains in playing and singing an old English (or Irish, or possibly American; there are many versions of the song, which has been recorded by Joan Baez and Peter, Paul and Mary, among others) folk tune, "Lily of the West." You can find it on 1995's The Long Black Veil, and a finer rendition of the classic sad story of a young man whose infatuation reaches too high, and who finds himself betrayed as a result, you'll never hear. As for whether there's anything typically Irish about that...well, I'll let you decide.

When first I came to Ireland,
some pleasures for to find.
It's there I spied a damsel fair,
so pleasing to my mind.
Her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes
like arrows pierced my breast;
and they called her "lovely Molly-O,
the lily of the west."

One day as I was walking,
down by the shady grove,
I spied a lord of high degree
conversing with my love.
She sang a song delightfully
while I was sore oppressed--
saying I'll bid adieu to Molly-O,
the lily of the west.

I stepped up with my rapier
and my dagger in my hand.
And I dragged him from my false love
and boldly bid him stand.
But being mad with desperation
I swore I'd pierce his breast.
I was then deceived by Molly-O,
the lily of the west.

I then did stand my trial
and boldly I did plea.
A flaw was in my indictment found
and that soon had my free.
That beauty bright I did adore
the judge did her address:
"Now go you faithless Molly-O,
the lily of the west."

Now that I've gained my liberty
a roving I will go--
I'll ramble through old Ireland,
and travel Scotland o'er.
Though she thought to swear my life away,
she still disturbs my rest--
I still must style her Molly-O,
the lily of the west.

Friday PSTSS: "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"

Just answer me honestly: is there anything that we as a people have learned from the glut of serial-killing-obsessed entertainments we've endured over the past couple of decades--anything about voyeurism, horror, dark humor, mass hysteria, or all the rest--which the Beatles hadn't anticipated nearly forty years ago with this song? I think not. After I realized how one could fit it all together with our present cultural moment, I couldn't stop laughing. I picture a video to this song featuring a young Hannibal Lecter singing along, perhaps while doing a jolly little dance.

Depending on the day of the week and the phase of the moon, I might say this is my favorite Beatles song, off of--again, depending on whatever mood I'm in when you ask--possibly my favorite Beatles album (and one of the Essential Pop Recordings of Western Civilization), Abbey Road. So put on the cd and sing along, sympathizing with poor Maxwell Edison. As another pop artist would later put it, he's just an excitable boy, that's all.

Joan was quizzical;
studied pataphysical
science in the home.
Late nights all alone with a test tube.
Oh-oh-oh-oh.

Maxwell Edison,
majoring in medicine,
calls her on the phone.
"Can I take you out to the pictures,
Joa-oa-oa-oan?"

But as she's getting ready to go,
a knock comes on the door.

Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
came down upon her head.
Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
made sure that she was dead.

Back in school again
Maxwell plays the fool again.
Teacher gets annoyed.
Wishing to avoid an unpleasant
Sce-e-e-ene,

She tells Max to stay
when the class has gone away,
so he waits behind.
Writing fifty times "I must not be
So-o-o-o."

But when she turns her back on the boy,
he creeps up from behind.

Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
came down upon her head.
Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
made sure that she was dead.

P. C. Thirty-one
said, "We caught a dirty one."
Maxwell stands alone,
painting testimonial pictures.
Oh-oh-oh-oh.

Rose and Valerie,
screaming from the gallery,
say he must go free (Maxwell must go free).
The judge does not agree and he tells them
So-o-o-o.

But as the words are leaving his lips,
a noise comes from behind.

Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
came down upon his head.
Bang! Bang! Maxwell's silver hammer
made sure that he was dead.

Whoa-oh-oh-oh,
Silver hammer man.

Friday PSTSS: "If I Had a Boat"

This is probably apocryphal (if it comes from an interview, it's not one I've been able to find online anywhere), but supposedly when Lyle Lovett was asked about this song--from his excellent early album Pontiac, though you can also get it on collections like Cowboy Man--he said it was inspired by his childhood confusion over what he wanted to be when he grew up: a pirate, or a cowboy? Much as I doubt the story, I sure hope it's true. It's perfect! After all, what do most little boys want to do? To go after those open spaces, that's what, whether they be the distant horizon or the Texas plains. Why compromise? You don't need a masked ranger to make you do some dirty job, and you definitely don't need a Dale to domesticate you and make you clean up after yourself--you're young and free, you can move like lightning and leave no tracks behind you, and you can take your pony on your boat and ride him and take care of him and watch movies with him and steer across the open seas to your hearts content. Take that, Mr. Grow-Up-and-Take-Your-Place-in-Society!

I mock the individualist mentality here plenty, because I don't agree with it philosophically and because I think it's often harmful. But that doesn't mean I'd like to extinguish it: it's part of the modern package, an inheritance of millions of people struggling for hundreds of years to figure out social systems where, dammit, they can go buy a pony and boat if that's their dream. Lyle here is a poet of that sensibility, that longing which, at its best, is a mature, responsible, quiet insistence (if not defiance) that is a reminder to us all. So take it away, Mr. Lovett, you and all my Texan and libertarian friends (one of whom first introduced me to this song years ago, during a long drive across west Texas from Dallas to San Angelo). I probably won't ever join you on that boat, but hell, sometimes even I would just like to ride or sail away.

If I had a boat,
I'd go out on the ocean.
And if I had a pony,
I'd ride him on my boat.
And we could all together
Go out on the ocean--
Me upon my pony on my boat.

If I were Roy Rogers,
I'd sure enough be single--
I couldn't bring myself to marrying old Dale.
It'd just be me and Trigger--
We'd go riding through them movies,
Then we'd buy a boat and on the sea we'd sail.

And if I had a boat,
I'd go out on the ocean.
And if I had a pony,
I'd ride him on my boat.
And we could all together
Go out on the ocean--
Me upon my pony on my boat

The mystery masked man was smart--
He got himself a Tonto,
'Cause Tonto did the dirty work for free.
But Tonto he was smarter,
And one day said kemo sabe:
"Kiss my ass I bought a boat,
I'm going out to sea."

And if I had a boat,
I'd go out on the ocean.
And if I had a pony,
I'd ride him on my boat.
And we could all together
Go out on the ocean--
Me upon my pony on my boat.

And if I were like lightning,
I wouldn't need no sneakers--
I'd come and go wherever I would please.
And I'd scare 'em by the shade tree,
And I'd scare 'em by the light pole,
But I would not scare my pony on my boat out on the sea.

And if I had a boat,
I'd go out on the ocean.
And if I had a pony,
I'd ride him on my boat.
And we could all together,
Go out on the ocean--
Me upon my pony on my boat.

Friday PSTSS: "Learning to Fly"

Living in Wichita, you get to know a lot of pilots. (Hey, it's the Air Capital of the World, as they say.) Many are test pilots for Lear or Boeing or Cessna or one of the other aerospace companies with have a large presence here, and a lot are former Air Force or other military that ended up in Wichita because they wanted a job that allowed them to continue to do the sort of thing and be around the sort of people they were comfortable with. And then quite a few are engineers and accountants and others that don't have any necessary connection with flying in their jobs...but, being surrounded by people captivated by the air, they can't resist it, and they go back to school and get some training, and soon they're hitting the runways.

My father got his pilot's license years ago, back when he owned and ran some restaurants around the western states (Frontier Pies--ever hear of them?) and needed to make a lot of (relatively) short trips on a regular basis; I think there was a bit of a mid-life crisis going on their as well. He spent about 10 years flying quite often before he gave it up. I don't think he was ever possessed by the mystique of it all, the wonder of using a machine to bring yourself up into the atmosphere. I wonder if I ever will be caught by it. Not that it's a hobby we could at all afford, but still, I wonder. I just took a youth group out to the airport where were taken on the flight simulators, and a member of our congregation talked about his own passion for flying, a passion he'd had since he was a kid and was discouraged from pursuing; he didn't turn around and make himself into a flight instructor until his thirties. And I've just learned that another fellow I know in his forties, I man with a good company, a wife who just finished training to be a nurse, and growing children, has just resigned his job and is off to Texas to learn how to be a commercial airline pilot. That's his dream, he said--and I can't deny that it's a good one.

For years, for some reason, I thought this Pink Floyd tune (from A Momentary Lapse of Reason) was by Lou Reed. I don't know why that got stuck in my head, but no matter; I eventually figured it out. It's a brilliant, introspective rock number from Floyd's immediate post-Roger Waters years. It's probably about more than just flying (new beginnings? the fragility of earth? sex?) but no matter; it works just fine to capture those enchanted by the dream of the open air.

Into the distance a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back.
A flight of fancy on a windswept field
Standing alone my senses reeled.

A fatal attraction holding me fast
How can I escape this irresistible grasp?
Can't keep my mind from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I.

Ice is forming on the tips of my wings
Unheeded warnings--I thought I thought of everything.
No navigator to find my way home
Unladened, empty, and turned to stone.

A soul in tension that's learning to fly
Condition grounded, but determined to try.
Can't keep my mind from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I.

Above the planet on a wing and a prayer
My grubby halo, a vapour trail in the empty air.
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly
Out of the corner of my watering eye.

A dream unthreatened by the morning light
Could blow this soul right through the roof of the night.

There's no sensation to compare with this--
Suspended animation, a state of bliss.
Can't keep my mind from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I.

Friday PSTSS: "I Ain't Goin' Nowhere"

Yes--the PSTSS series is back! Though perhaps we should hold off with the celebrations until I actually manage to do this two or more Fridays in a row.

None of you have ever heard this song on pop radio, and Rick Moranis--yes, that Rick Moranis, the most talented member of SCTV and the unsung hero of perhaps a dozen of what otherwise would have been at-best middling comedies--is hardly a pop star. He wouldn't want to be anyway. But what he is, or at least has become over the past three or four years or so, is a brilliantly sly, witty and sardonic country-western singer. Everyone should buy his debut album (and let there be more!) The Agoraphobic Cowboy and get into the habit of checking his website for various updates (he's got a new song--"America, My Truck"--plus a bizarre-but-funny little essay about what Nora Ephron must think of Barack Obama's neck). But truly, the one song that everyone needs to have is this wonderfully weird number, "I Ain't Goin' Nowhere." You've got to get this recording for three reasons: 1) because it's the single smartest parody of Johnny Cash's oft-parodied "I've Been Everywhere" you'll ever hear; 2) because it's just damn hilarious; and 3) because, though I'm practically certain that Moranis didn't actually intended this song to engage in any kind of sophisticated critique of American society, the fact remains that Moranis's lyrics simply crucify a particular kind of technology-obsessed, paranoid, security-crazy, over-medicated, supposedly self-sufficient (but actually pathetically media-dependent), distrustful, talk-show-addicted, mini-mansion-dwelling quasi-libertarian loser citizen, of which America has way too many of already. If there's ever to be a revolution in the name of simplicity and responsibility and community in this nation, I'll put this song--along with, say, Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death--down as one of its primary documents.

I never go nowhere, man
I never go nowhere.
Traffic’s bad out there, man
I’m savin’ wear and tear.
I like conditioned air, man
I never go nowhere.

I go
Upstairs, downstairs, backyard, lawn chairs,
Living room, bathroom, bedroom, furnace room,
Hot-tub, cedar deck, build a fire, washer/dryer,
Pantry, patio, Bartiromo video,
Cold cellar, rec room, ping-pong, mah jongg,
Beer count wearin’ thin, speed dial,
Order in.

I ain’t goin’ nowhere, man
I ain’t goin’ nowhere.
It’s dangerous out there, man
Might ‘a been a big bomb scare.
Hard to get off of this easy chair
I ain’t goin’ nowhere.

I go
Online, dsl, amazon, buy and sell,
Ebay, layaway, last bid noon today,
Plasma, Judy Judge, broadband, Matt Drudge,
J.Crew, B&N, dotcom, CNN,
JPEG, e.mail, pop-up, she-male,
Shower cam, filter spam, slam bam,
I think it’s ma’am.

I ain’t goin’ nowhere, man
Never gonna go nowhere.
It’s a bungled jungle out there, man
Some kid got mauled by a bear [that's my single favorite line].
Surround sound in my own lair
I ain’t goin’ nowhere.

I got
Perimeter, motion, doggie door, mail call,
Peep hole, Avon, wireless, strobes on,
PIN Code, keypad, relay, pepper spray,
Homebase, interface, three-zone, plug ‘n play,
Infra-red, photocell, squad car, decibel,
Choppers up, sonic boom,
Activate the panic room.

I’m on,
Ritalin, Coumadin, Zantac, Lipitor,
Diazepam, Nexium, Prevacid, Percocet,
Levitra, Levaquin, Elavil, Fosomax,
Plavix, Keflex, Next day Fedex,
Zithromax Avalox, Flexeril, Topomax,
Prozac, Ativan, Aderol,
I take ‘em all.

I ain’t goin’ nowhere, man
Never gonna go nowhere.
I’m cuttin’ my own hair, man
Nothin’ I need out there.
Outside sunny but inside cher
I ain’t goin’ nowhere.

Friday PSTSS: "Time Passages"

Well, this hasn't been anything like the regular weekly feature I once imagined it would be, but I'm still going to keep at it, when the muse strikes me.

The Christmas season is often a part of the year when I, like a lot of other people, get caught up in all sorts of memories and traditions. But those memories rarely seem to take a nostalgic or melancholic form; mostly, they're outwardly directed, not meditative. Still, lately--perhaps because of all that's been going on around here over the past couple of weeks--I've found myself in a genuinely sentimental mood, getting all wistful about things for reasons that are pretty hard to articulate. I'm not morose or anything, just a little distracted.

There's never been a better pop song, to my knowledge, at expressing this kind of nostalgic or melancholic distraction than Al Stewart's "Time Passages." His album of the same name was the very first piece of commercial music I ever bought with my own money; I picked it up in cassette form at a grocery store sometime in 1978. (In a very early flicker of critical consciousness, I can remember comparing Al Stewart's music quite favorably with the then-ubiquitous Bee Gees and their Saturday Night Fever recordings.) I played that cassette tape over and over, and then eventually grew out of that music and stopped playing it. It was years before I came back to the song (having long since lost the cassette) and rediscovered Al Stewart; I'd never known before about his folkie, literate side, or that this album was a lucky combination Stewart's lyrical sense and Alan Parson's jazzy production. I'd certainly never known that Stewart himself didn't ever care for the easy-listening pop feeling the song (he apparently sometimes plays it in concerts today as an acoustic Irish jig). But not that any of that matters insofar as this tune is concerned. I bet it probably seems too slight for most pop listeners today, but I'd say that's their loss; the song itself remains a thoughtful, well-crafted gem.

It was late in December
The sky turned to snow
All round the day was going down slow
Night like a river beginning to flow
I felt the beat of my mind
Go drifting into time passages
Years go falling in the fading light
Time passages
Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight

Well, I'm not the kind to live in the past
The years run too short and the days too fast
The things you lean on
Are the things that don't last
Well, it's just now
And then my line gets cast into these
Time passages
There's something back here that you left behind
Oh, time passages
Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight

Hear the echoes and feel yourself starting to turn
Don't know why you should feel
That there's something to learn
It's just a game that you play

Well, the picture is changing
Now you're part of a crowd
They're laughing at something
And the music's loud
A girl comes towards you
You once used to know
You reach out your hand
But you're all alone
In those time passages
I know you're in there
You're just out of sight
Oh, time passages
Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight

Friday PSTSS: "If I Had A Million Dollars"

Back to blogging, and back to my silly little once-a-week exercises in pop music pedantry.

So, how old was I when I first heard this song? Around late 1992, I think, when the Barenaked Ladies's Gordon was released; at least it started showing up on alternative radio stations in Utah sometime around then. All the hip people loved it, of course. What is it with this ridiculously simple song? It's a love song, sort of, though not really; nor is really just a joke song, because of the really rather humble and honest message behind all the whimsy....even though, well, of course it is a joke song, only that and more. Maybe it's just the quintessentially Canadian song: not quite this, and not quite that, but pretty damn funny and decent all the same, in a low key sort of way. Fifteen years after first hearing it, it still cracks me up when Steven Page, in one of the innumerable versions of this song, starts going on about fancy ketchups, and laughs at himself, in spite of the lyric.

Ed Robertson: If I had a million dollars
(Steven Page: If I had a million dollars)
I'd buy you a house
(I would buy you a house)
If I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
I'd buy you furniture for your house
(Maybe a nice chesterfield or an ottoman)
And if I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
Well, I'd buy you a K-Car
(A nice Reliant automobile)
If I had a million dollars I'd buy your love

If I had a million dollars
(I'd build a tree fort in our yard)
If I had million dollars
(You could help, it wouldn't be that hard)
If I had million dollars
(Maybe we could put like a little tiny fridge in there somewhere)
[You know, we could just go up there and hang out...
Like open the fridge and stuff...
There would already be laid out foods for us...
Like little pre-wrapped sausages and things--
They have pre-wrapped sausages but they don't have pre-wrapped bacon.
Well, can you blame 'em?
Uh, yeah!]

If I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
Well, I'd buy you a fur coat
(But not a real fur coat that's cruel)
And if I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
Well, I'd buy you an exotic pet
(Yep, like a llama or an emu)
And if I had a million dollars
(If I had a a million dollars)
Well, I'd buy you John Merrick's remains
(Ooh, all them crazy elephant bones)
And If I had a million dollars I'd buy your love

If I had a million dollars
(We wouldn't have to walk to the store)
If I had a million dollars
(Now, we'd take a limousine 'cause it costs more)
If I had a million dollars
(We wouldn't have to eat Kraft Dinner)
[But we would eat Kraft Dinner
Of course we would, we’d just eat more
And buy really expensive ketchups with it
That’s right, all the fanciest ke... dijon ketchups!
Mmmmmm, Mmmm-Hmmm]

If I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
Well, I'd buy you a green dress
(But not a real green dress, that's cruel)
And if I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
Well, I'd buy you some art
(A Picasso or a Garfunkel)
If I had a million dollars
(If I had a million dollars)
Well, I'd buy you a monkey
(Haven't you always wanted a monkey)
If I had a million dollars
I’d buy your love

If I had a million dollars
If I had a million dollars
If I had a million dollars
If I had a million dollars
If I had a million dollars
I'd be rich