Fire in the City

Many years ago, mainly back in my college days, I wrote songs, which I performed on guitar and wailed along with real loud. It's been a long time since I even touched an instrument, but a few years back, I played semi-regularly in various public venues, sometimes accompanied by Ms. B. (some of you poor wretches may recall this). One of the last songs I ever wrote (probably 1987, when I lived in Chicago) was called "Fire in the City," and it was largely about my difficulties dealing with the chronic madness of the human species as I saw it at the time. But never has there been a more challenging time to live with said chronic madness than today—and it's at a level far beyond any I could have imagined in my youthful and certainly more optimistic days.

In July 2018, at one of the singer/songwriter events hosted by the now sadly defunct Daily Grind in Martinsville, I played "Fire in the City," which Ms. B. bravely recorded. I'm gonna post it here just because it is my personal statement for today. The sound quality is only so-so, but listen if you wish, or don't; I can't guarantee the performance won't harm your eardrums.

Fire in the City

The chilling air is hot with sound
As snow turns the ceiling gray
People crawl through streets of ice
How hard it is not to hate

Snail’s pace is the pulse of the city
Sounds of traffic grow and fade
Wintry voices slash my ears
How hard it is not to hate

People laugh and people cry
But I have turned my eyes away
Compare their lives against the truth
How hard it is not to hate

Pollution of the heart and mind
Runs rampant in the human haze
And drowning in this sea of life
How hard it is not to hate

Some release would help the heat
That rises up within
But the burning fire below is lost
And smothered by the snow

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

Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart

Although my brother didn’t professionally record many of his tunes, he did release a few songs on vinyl, CD, and MP3. His best-known song would probably be “Orange Kid,” which goes back to his Industrial Soldier days, mid- to late-1980s. In the early 1990s, he recorded it and released it as an orange vinyl 45 rpm record, with a superb tune on side B called “A Smash” (the lyrics to which I shall endeavor to transcribe when I can). In more recent years, he recorded and most frequently performed “Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart,” another moody, melodic ballad that speaks of his personal experiences and feelings. His vocals on this one are particularly heart-rending.

You can listen to the audio file of “Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart” here.

Last Night, the Stars Fell All Apart
©Phred Rainey/Joe the Fireman

Honeysuckle came and went
Faraway evenings spent
In my castle without a moat
Smelled just like May-times do
And midnight lovers do
When they’re lucky enough to have and hold

Couldn't send a message far enough
Just waiting around for you to call my bluff

Last night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

Back then when pigs could fly
I rose above that other guy
I was willing to flash and burn
Like Red River fireworks fly
I stole a kiss and let it ride
Before I lost my nerve and lost my turn

There’s no better time to feel like a winning man
Could it be to cheat myself was part of my plan?

That night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

Then on the beach your pleasant hand
Told me that I’m the man
To make or break or take you home
Then I sang a September song
But the names and dates were wrong
Too much, too soon, and all alone

There’s no more waiting now, my cover’s blown
Twelve hundred miles away, I guess you're on your own

Last night, the stars fell all apart
It means a man don’t dream
It means man will cry
For stars to fill an evening sky
If only just to break your heart

Back for Swing

I’ve long said that attempting to psychoanalyze or ascribe specific motivations to an author based on his or her work is an exercise in futility or outright mistake. Some years ago, my depiction of a character in a short story prompted a reviewer to accuse me of antisemitism — which I can only decry as a baseless and utterly foolish claim, far more revealing of the reviewer’s prejudices and preconceived notions than the author’s. However, songs — poetry in general — and straight fiction are wholly different animals. My brother, Phred, used his lyrics to reveal his deepest feelings, undisguised, vividly painted and paired with his most wistful, poignant melodies. I so hope to get some of his recordings preserved digitally, though I fear that even high-quality analog versions will prove few and far between. There is still much material to sort through.

“Back for a Swing” is one of Phred’s most revealing compositions, a brutally honest confession of his own objective glimpses of himself. This song — a beautiful ballad that rings of something between Neil Young and Tindersticks — makes me weepy every time I listen to it.

Back for a Swing
©Phred Rainey

Take a pull on that wine
And pull on my sleeve
You know that I
Would never make you leave

That’s what I want you to say
It’s what I dreamed about
It’s what I want you to say
That’s what I want to hear
All I want to hear

My clothes on the floor
A dead car in the yard
All those things that you see

It shouldn’t be so hard
To change the things that you see
And get a spark out of me

You want to change what you see
To get the most out of me

It shouldn’t be so hard
To make a man out of me

You see I don’t come across
Like a normal man
I keep too much to myself
As much as anyone can
But I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you

I wish I could say you’re responsible
I wish I could say you’re impossible
But it’s too easy to
And God knows it ain’t true

I took what I saw
I didn’t think you’d care
I thought of laying them back
I saw you lying there

You shouldn’t be so hard
You’ll make a man out of me

I tried to walk through a swamp
I tried to make my own way
It’s just the things that I do
That make a lie of what I say

I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you
I can’t hide anything from you
Can’t hide anything from you

Something Evil

Gray clouds cry in the thundering sky,
Yellow fire darts between billowed masses.
The voice of the wind is howling in my ears,
And the trees quake as the thunder crashes.

Inside the fire roars, and there’s someone at the door
Coming in from the gloomy, pine-black forest.
Cloak drawn around him, and his boots are caked with mud.
He sits down for an ale and me another.

He tells a tale as he downs another ale.
There’s a fear down deep behind his eyes.
Out in the storm something fearsome is born,
Something evil that now comes with the night.

And with his words,
A sound is heard from outside.
Fear clouds his eyes,
And he dies
In his chair.

Out in the rain looking through the window pane,
Two eyes glowing in a fiery brimstone red.
With a thunder I can hear, my heart pounds with fear
As a shadow fades into the forest.
Carrying my gun, I break into a run
Through the trees that were once so familiar.

But as I run through the rain and the mud,
There’s a sound that echoes from behind.
Back at my house, all the lights go out,
And I’m standing on the edge of a nightmare.

Sound drawing near,
I can hear
But I can’t hide.
Lost in this dream,
I hear a scream.
It is I.

Gray clouds cry in the thundering sky,
And the air is lit by streaking forks of light.
Out in the storm, something fearsome is born,
Something evil that now comes with the night.

©1983, 2017 Stephen Mark Rainey

This spooky song and plenty more may be heard when I play at The Writers' Round Featuring Tokyo Rosenthal and Mark Rainey at The Daily Grind in Martinsville, VA, on September 22, 8:00 PM to 10:00 PM.

I Can Dare Myself

I was looking up some lyrics the other day, and on one online forum or another, I came upon some a singularly bemusing comment about a song I'm especially fond of — "By My Side," from Godspell. The spiritual message of the production aside, it really is a beautiful piece of music, with lyrics (written by original cast member Peggy Gordon, prior to the soundtrack being composed by Stephen Schwartz) that are not directly taken from Biblical narrative, like most of the rest of the production. The lyrics are not what I would call opaque — from my first listening as a teenager, it seemed pretty clear what they were about. But the comment in question came from an individual who believed that messages in lyrics (and, by extrapolation, one could conclude from literature in general) ought to be straightforward and easy to understand, rather than open to various interpretations.

I had to re-read the comment to make sure I hadn't misinterpreted it. Nope. And though the comments in the forum may have been many years old, I found it all too tempting to jump in and offer my two cents' worth. So, as my consolation, I'll offer my two cents here instead, if you've a mind to bear with me.

It is a creator not spelling out every detail, spurring the audience to engage its collective imagination, its intuitive senses, its powers of deduction, thus becoming an interactive player in the experience, that makes a work transcendent. Multidimensional. Not flat, even. Music, fiction, movies... it makes no never mind. In the realm of dark literature, T.E.D. Klein, in his collection Dark Gods, offers several tales that suggest he knows exactly what's happening and why — but it's up to the reader to fill in the blanks he intentionally leaves. If you've ever read a word of this blog or any of my posts on Facebook, Twitter, etc., you might infer that I'm a David Lynch fan. You would be correct. There are volumes of analyses of Lynch's work out there, and I've spent more time and energy than ought to be allowed by law watching, re-watching, reading about, and mentally wrestling with his films. (The prospect of a new incarnation of Twin Peaks is, to me, fucking orgasmic.)

No, I don't always want to have to work a puzzle when I'm reading or listening or watching something for pure enjoyment. But the idea that complex themes ought to be spelled out, that a work should leave little to naught left to the imagination, or that — God forbid — one might have to engage in critical analysis, draw individual conclusions, or deduce something altogether different than the next consumer, well... perhaps you can infer my opinion.

This attitude, this laziness, is symptomatic of a consumer base accustomed to being spoon fed every idea in miniscule, easy-to-digest doses via memes, click-bait headlines, and editorials masquerading as news. It's the heyday of short-attention-span theater. In the same vein as the original example of shallow thinking, I can't count how many times I've seen thoughtful, well-researched, fact-based editorials summarily dismissed — almost exclusively by adherents to a socially conservative school of thought — with this quip: "Too long, didn't read." My god, you dolts. You are our downfall.

As an author, I aspire to engage readers of superior intellect, those with keen powers of insight, those who might even say, "you dink, you have some ways to go, for your prose is shallow." Yeah, that can be harsh. But one doesn't grow without challenge. And if you're not daring to grow, you're stagnating, and if you're stagnating, you may be starting to reek. Let none of us do this thing.

I shall call the pebble Dare.