Grass-a-Lot

Today would have been brother Phred’s birthday — 57th, I believe. I found it gratifying to see many of his friends remembering the occasion on social media. I devoted some time to listening to his music, looking at old photos, and reflecting on our lives together.

For at least a fair portion of his Industrial Soldier days, Phred lived in the sticks outside of Blacksburg, VA, following four years and some change at Virginia Tech. Although I believe he wrote “Grass-a-Lot” while he was in college, probably dwelling on campus, he preferred remote, relatively isolated living, which is what his later residence outside of Blacksburg offered him. In the late 1980s, after moving back south from Chicago, I spent a considerable time with him out there in the sticks, and I rate those days as among the best we ever shared. “Grass-a-Lot,” for its youthful, mildly rebellious tone, could have been his musical banner during that period, not to mention the days and years that followed. The sentiment is one he and I have had in common. That sense of belonging to a place — even a time — is as powerful in me now as it was then, and hearing this particular song after something like three decades brings me around full circle, emotionally. Its power comes largely from a youthful perspective that speaks just as loudly to the old fart in at least some of us.

In those days, Phred’s vocals were raw and untamed, but the composition and musicianship, as with everything Industrial Soldier, more than stands up to critical listening.

You can check out “Grass-a-Lot” on Dropbox here.

Grass-a-Lot
©Phred Rainey, Industrial Soldier

Behind this fence we dig our trench
And grab our part of the land
We got here first, and here we are
And now get out of hand

It’s occupied, now we’re on our own
We’ll take it off the map
And place it here
Far as eyes can see

We could give the neighbors something to talk about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud
Are we far away?
Do we owe them any sleep?
Not today

They come from miles around to see if we are real
If the creeps are in our yard, we’ll down ’em
And bury them in the field
We know what's right and this is why we know what’s at stake
Our lives are here
To a bitter end

We could give the neighbors something to think about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud
Are we far away?
Do we owe them any sleep?
Not today

Inside the fence we raise our fists and grab our part of the land
We got here first and here we are
So get off our land
Truth to tell, we’re doing well in a place we can call our own
Our lives are here
Our grass is here

We could give the neighbors something to talk about
Perhaps they’ll make a law someday and make it safe to live loud

This Way It’s Easy

Before Joe the Fireman, there was Industrial Soldier, a wonderful little band my brother and several of his compadres formed in their college days, early- to mid-1980s. In 1986, when I lived in Chicago, Phred sent me a cassette tape of Industrial Soldier, which I listened to no end because it was freaking good. The musicianship was incredible, far better than any college town band I ever heard back in my day, save REM, whom I saw semi-frequently in my UGA days in Athens, GA. Sadly, despite having turned this house upside-down, I have been unable to locate that old cassette. I know it’s got to be here... somewhere. I played it for Brugger several years ago — so wherever I put it back then, that is no doubt where it is now.

This is one I believe Phred wrote while he was in college. An awesome tune. You can listen to it on Dropbox here: This Way It’s Easy

This Way It’s Easy
©Phred Rainey, Industrial Soldier

Wheel up in my eye
Offends the sky

Take my space to fill this place among
The pioneers of waste
Anything you had to do and more
That way was hard

Do what you would never do if
You didn't have time to do it
The real kind of patriot's dream I see
Is mine, you're welcome to it
I got no damn complaints
Whiskey ain't for saints
Or me

Dog's back in town
Pushed me around

Take my space to fill this place among
The pioneers of waste
Anything you had to do and more
That way was hard

Do what you would never do if
You didn't have time to do it
The real kind of patriot's dream I see
Is mine, you're welcome to it
I got no damn complaints
Whiskey ain't for saints
Or me