Okey. This 12-string slide guitar instrumental is a ringer. I’ll admit it. I recorded it while I was recording some other stuff for AYoS and put it aside for a day like… today.
It’s just a noodle built around some slightly mixed up blues changes, a meandering amble through a few slide guitar cliches I had sitting around in the back of my head.
But I have the suitcase of songs open, the rig fired up, and that rootless, aimless feelin’ that don’t do a man no good… unless he sits down with his guitar and lets some demons out. No sense saving those… So, barring unforseen circs, tomorrow should see a fresh slice of lyrical angst and musical self indulgence on this very page. Stay tuned.
I scribbled down the first verse and the chorus of this song in ’75 or so in one of the notebooks I usually kept with me at the gas station I was working at. I had in mind some kind of hot rod gothic epic as told through the sensibility of a French director only in rock instead of film. But it would be fifteen years before I got any farther.
Finally, in 1990 I broke out the notebook and sat down to fill out the song. I’d been going through a fertile period with my writing but I’d hit a slump and thought maybe I could keep busy at the least by cleaning up unfinished biz. But I’m the kind of guy who is dependent on inspiration. And, I’m afraid, that was running as thin as the tires in the song title.
What was, I guess, supposed to explore the interplay between good and evil and will and surrender instead became a series of comic book sketches…
This version takes it all about as seriously as it deserves, giving the song a goofily campy sass… or at least that’s what I hear when I squint real hard.
Oh… and now might be an excellent time to point out that most of what I consider my best work is still ahead. I’ve done a couple of my favorites — and avoided the worst of the stinkers — but I’ve been pacing myself. The best is definitely yet to come. Uh… for what that’s worth.
We were running bad rubber for most of the summer
the oil was a rich dirty black
we were broke as hell, flat for a spell
but there was no thought of going back
Dont talk to me about love I dont need it at all Dont talk to me about knowledge You know we’re living . . . after the fall
We pulled into Winona
on a hot August afternoon
I saw her first,
but my buddy he done saw her too
We pulled into that parking lot
she hopped in the back
my buddy he asked what her name was (she just said)
“Honey, let’s just get out of here fast” Dont talk to me about love…
we drove all night crossed two state lines
in the morning we had to crash
I asked her waht the hell she done
(she said ya don’t wanta) Know if ya gotta ask
drove down to the Keys and shut down the car
there was nowhere left to go
I turned to her and asked whats next
she said dont ask if ya dont already know Dont talk to me about love I dont believe it at all Dont talk to me about knowledge You know we’re living . . . after the fall