052: The Lovin’ Spoonful, ‘Girl, Beautiful Girl’

Posted by jeff on May 28, 2015 in Rock, Song Of the week

Girl, Beautiful Girl, The Lovin’ Spoonful

One weekend night in 1969 I was working the door at the Ludlow Garage, a rock emporium in Cincinnati, when a party of four hotshots approached. The cheesiest of them asked from behind his sunglasses, “This where Mountain is playing?”

And I answered, “Yeah”. That was me, always ready with a rapier comeback.

And he said, “We would like to bestow upon you the honor of inviting us in.”

“For free?”

“Of course.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because this,” indicating one member of the group, “is Mr. ***.”

Mr. *** was a young and upcoming director of films from the state of California on the west coast of the United States. I don’t know who the hotshot was trying to impress by dropping that name, because it wouldn’t be recognized by anyone in Cincinnati other than a bored, film-obsessed 21-year old follower of young and obscure directors. Coincidentally, the guy working the door at that moment was a bored, film-obsessed 21-year old follower of young and obscure directors.

So I said over hotshit’s shoulder, directly to Mr. ***, “Mr ***, it would be our pleasure to host you this evening.” (I’m not quite sure from whence I drew the authority to make that decision, but I did.)

Just how obscure was Mr ***? Well, he at that time had two Hollywood films released. The first began as his MA thesis at UCLA film school, but became an $800,000-budget Hollywood release. It was a coming-of-age comic-drama starring a bunch of B- and C-list actors – Peter Kastner (who?) as Bernard, The Innocent; Karen Black (Nicholson’s waitress girlfriend in Five Easy Pieces) as The Good Girl; Elizabeth Hartman as The Bad Girl;  Tony Bill as The Friend; and Method-school bluebloods Rip Torn (born Elmore Rual Torn, Jr., nicknamed “Rip” by his father) as The Father, and Geraldine Page (premier interpretress of Tennessee Williams’ heroines) as The Mother. Bernard’s film parents were married in real life as well (well, ‘real’ in Hollywoodian terms.) Their country estate was named Torn Page.

The story takes place at the boy’s place of employ, the labyrinth stacks of the NYC Public Library, which Bernard traverses on roller skates, shelving books and moaning about his lack of a sex life. His friend incites him to rebellion, drugs, and sex, the latter focused on Barbara Darling (Hartman).

But you have to remember that we’re talking 1966 here, and movies like that weren’t made. Establishment ‘youth’ films were still Frankie Avalon/Annette Funicello Beach Blanket Bingos. That’s why Richard Lester’s Beatles Hard Day’s Night and his The Knack (and How to Get It) were so mind-blowing for us. Later, in 1967, the The Graduate used the Mrs Robinson soundtrack precisely and evocatively, but it was background music.

That’s why Mr ***’s You’re a Big Boy Now made such an impression on me, and on the other 2000 people who had seen it. It had the unique quality of taking the rock music soundtrack seriously. Written and performed by The Lovin’ Spoonful, the music actually served as a cinematic tool, organically integrated in the goings-on on screen (even more than in Hard Day’s Night.)

Apparently I wasn’t the only one impressed with the use of The Spoonful’s music in the film. The next year, Woody Allen hired them to provide the music to his film What’s Up, Tiger Lily?, in which he took a grade-Z Japanese spy movie and added his own soundtrack, which became the story of agent Phil Moskowitz’s deadly mission to secure the recipe for the world’s greatest egg salad.

You have to remember, this was 1966. The only American rock bands of significance were The Byrds from California, and The Lovin’ Spoonful from New York. By the time of You’re a Big Boy, The Spoonful already had under their collective belts “Do You Believe in Magic?,” “You Didn’t Have to Be So Nice,” “Daydream,” “Summer in the City,” and “Nashville Cats“. Not bad, huh? And lots of their lesser-known songs are just as good.

But I’m not going to deal thoroughly with The Lovin’ Spoonful here, because I’m such a giant John Sebastian fan. He’ll get his own SoTW. Many of them, I hope, because so many of his songs are deeply engraved in my heart and soul and memory. Here we’ll just mention that the song has some pretty darn funky brass, and even strings, juxtaposed with the raucous rockous almost-song, with Sebastian’s knockout lyrics barely noticeable. (Check them out, down at the bottom here.) Sebastian’s lyrics here, as always, are witty, urbane, sly, goofy, charming, and full of surprising delights. The movie score also included the great ‘Darling, Be Home Soon’ (the video shows why Zal already had one foot outside the band) and the title song, later memorably rerecorded by Sebastian solo.

Anyway, after that movie Mr *** had gotten a hack job directing a real-budget Hollywood musical, ‘Finian’s Rainbow’, a rather embarrassing blurp in his filmography. And at the time he came to see Leslie West at The Garage, he had probably finished making his new film which had yet to be released, a way-before-its time road movie about a pregnant, angst-ridden housewife who just gets up and walks out, drives and drives, picks up along the way a hitchhiking former pro football player with mushed brains. They travel together, two lost souls, Shirley Knight and the young and unknown James Caan. But as I said, The Rain People had yet to show in Cincinnati, and my respect and admiration for Mr *** was based solely on what I had seen in You’re a Big Boy Now.

Meanwhile, back at the Garage, during a break, I went up to tell him that.

“Mr. ***,” I said, “I’m an admirer of yours.”

“Thank you,” he said. An auspicious beginning.

“I think that You’re a Big Boy Now is the first movie ever to really use rock music seriously.” He looked at me.

“Like in the first scene [and thank you so much to YouTube for enabling us to revisit it]. The gut-wrenchingly slow zoom in from the far side of the main reading room of the NY Public Library, so quiet you’re not sure the movie has really started until you hear a background cough, no movement, no noise, no activity other than the turning of pages. As still as a tomb. And then the camera ‘zooms’ (crawls, actually) into those big, staid double oak doors. Painfully slowly. And then, Boom! Zal’s slashing, grating guitar chords, as jarring as the opening chord of George’s in that Lester film, as the doors are thrown back, and Barbara Darling comes strutting in, all the movement and brashness and color and music in the world. I think that’s a really fine scene. Never seen anything like it. That’s the way to make a movie that rocks.”

And he looked at me, and said, “You from around here?”

And I said, “Yes.”

And he said, “Well, if you’re ever in California, come look me up.”

Three years later, Francis Ford Coppolla made The Godfather. And the year after that he produced George Lucas’s American Graffiti, which redefined the use of rock music in films.

But even then California was La-La Land for me. When Mr Coppolla was making those movies, I was already settled in Israel, with a wife, kid, mortgage and war on my head.

Well, you never can tell
But you’re looking so well
That I gotta stop and say “How do you do?”

I know it’s a long shot
But judging what she’s got
I’m hoping that my judgment is true

Girl, beautiful girl, can I look at your insides?
Girl, wrapped up in fur, I’m just mad for your outsides!

Mmm, that’s what my inside says
If only I could walk up and tell her
But it seems so far from me to her
And the ground is so unfamiliar

Well I wish that I knew cause I’d be in a stew
If my little speech sounded like a phony line
I know that it’s doubtful cause she’s heard a mouthful
Of ‘come on up and see me sometime’.

Girl, beautiful girl, can I look at your insides?
Girl, wrapped up in fur, I’m just mad for your outsides!

If you enjoyed this posting, you may also like:

098: John Sebastian, ‘Younger Generation’


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038: Van Morrison, ‘Astral Weeks’

Posted by jeff on Feb 12, 2015 in Rock, Song Of the week

This week we’re back to the legendary summer of 1968, treating ourselves to one of the finest albums we’ve had the great honor and pleasure to embrace – Van Morrison’s “Astral Weeks”.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about Laura Nyro’s “Eli & the 13th Confession”. I spoke about it as a desert island album for me. I understand that that’s a personal choice, and a rather quirky one, even though “Eli” commands immense respect in certain circles (after I wrote about it I saw Elton John on Elvis Costello’s “Spectacle”, where they were singing the praises of “Eli” like they were Laura’s mothers, in almost embarrassing hyperbole). “Astral Weeks”, on the other hand, is universally recognized as a masterpiece. You can find the record on every single serious desert island (quite an image—an archipelago of babyboomer Bali Highs) and on every list of the peaks of popular music in the last half century.

In my mind, “Astral Weeks” was always “Eli”‘s soul-brother–not the ‘blue-eyed soul’ of The Righteous Brothers and Mitch Ryder, but of serious white artists plumbing the blues roots of rock and roll, melding it with the Tin Pan Alley tradition, and forging a young, vibrant, breathtakingly transcendent idiom.

I shared an apartment with these two albums when they saw the light of day (hell, when they shed the light of day) in the heady days of 1968. Both albums clock in at an unusually long 46+ minutes, so they were back-to-back on a well-worn 100 minute cassette of mine in the 1970s and 1980s. And in the last 20 years, I have continued to revisit them frequently, perhaps more than any other aural scene from those years. I know them like I know the inside of my soul.

Remarkably, neither has changed much. Both are spiritual fountains of youthful vitality, their waters magically smoothing out the wrinkles. The record companies’ attempts to feed the market demand for new nostalgia has had little impact. They added a few solo demo tracks for “Eli”, which really were a bonus if you don’t confuse them with the real thing. And no bonus tracks for “Astral Weeks”. It was born perfect and complete, and the ravages of the decades haven’t diminished it a bit.

The only sacrilege performed on “Astral Weeks” was by the creator himself. Van Morrison decided, 40 years after the fact, to revisit the album–two performances at the Hollywood Bowl, the original guitarist, yadda yadda, the whole “The Unique Event, Part II” syndrome. I haven’t listened to it. It’s on my computer, and I’m managing to restrain myself. I heard 10 seconds of it on the radio before I could tear my ears away from it, much like the morbid fascination with roadkill. “Astral Weeks: Live at the Hollywood Bowl” 2009 can only demean and diminish the original, and I’m not going to willingly sully my ears. Van himself said that he entered the project only because he never had a chance to perform the “Astral Weeks” song cycle. Well, that’s what he says, but he also said that “Madame George” isn’t about a transvestite, so you want to be a little careful about his comments after the fact.

As opposed to what he sings, which should be embraced unguarded.

Van Morrison was born (1945) and raised in Belfast, Ireland, the scene of most of the songs on “Astral Weeks”. He grew up listening to American jazz and blues, his idol being the Louisianan bluesman Leadbelly (Huddie Ledbetter, d. 1949), convicted murderer, cohort of Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, and lecturer/performer at Harvard and Yale in the 1930s. Here’s Van’s favorite Leadbelly cut, ‘Easy Rider‘.

In 1964, Van wrote and sang with the band Them the iconic garage band classic ‘Gloria‘ (replete with non-Ed Sullivan lyrics). Moving to New York, he was washed and tamed, and wrote the incomparably joyous ‘Brown-Eyed Girl’ (sorry, no Van Morrison on YouTube, but I’m guessing you know the song by heart anyway). It was released on a lackluster album, “Blowin’ Your Mind”.

Then, in 1968, out of nowhere, “Astral Weeks”. It sold poorly, like “Pet Sounds”—a masterpiece but the poorest selling album of a major artist, too refined for the AM Top 40 market of the late 1960s. Then came the ebullient song and the LP “Moondance” (1970), perhaps his most popular album. It was the first of a wondrous series of albums including “His Band and the Street Choir” (1970), including ‘Domino’; “Tupelo Honey” (1971), including the magical title track; “Saint Dominic’s Preview” (1972), including ‘Jackie Wilson Said’; “It’s Too Late to Stop Now” (1974), a respected double live album I’m less fond of;  and “Veedon Fleece” (1974), a gem I just really got to know very recently and am totally enthralled with. Van’s still going strong today— new contexts, new styles, very much the same irrepressible Irish folk/soul poet. But that 1968-1974 run was his Golden Age.

What is unique about “Astral Weeks” is how unique it is. It comes from no tradition and left no legacy. Stylistically, it stands absolutely alone. Spiritual blue-eyed Celtic soul acid acoustic jazz-rock. It’s gorgeous and sumptuous and moving and transcendent. No one else even tried to go there. It is literally inimitable.

Probably the closest album to it in its musical frame of reference is The Pentangle, their first, an album I quite admire. Listen to this, and you’ll hear how many light years beyond its contemporary surroundings “Astral Weeks” was. Its impact, if not its influence, has been indelible. Those of you who like homework assignments can check out the long Wikipedia entry.

“Astral Weeks” consists of 8 songs. They contain lots of autobiographical details blown up to mythic proportions as only the Irish can get away with. Each one is an odyssey and an oracle unto itself. The plaintive narratives of days past: ‘Beside You’, ‘Cyprus Avenue’, ‘Madame George’. The jazz-informed, upbeat title song, ‘Young Lovers Do’ (maybe my favorite–try counting the beat from within in the chaos), ‘Sweet Thing’. The love song ‘Ballerina’ (conjuring for me W.B. Yeats’ dancer). The ghostly ‘Slim Slow Slider’. They’re very simple musically—just a few basic chords, mostly in 6/8, evocative but amorphous lyrics, very little song structure to hold him back. It’s folk/rock jazz.

“Astral Weeks” is an acoustic album—Van on a very forward, present, insistent rhythm guitar providing the heartbeat of the cuts; a tasteful flute, vibraphone, an amazingly dynamic small string section. And then there’s Jay Berliner (nylon-stringed guitar), a studio musician who has played with everyone from the Metropolitan Opera house orchestra to Debbie Boone, including along the way Charlie Mingus on “The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady”; and Connie Kay, the ultra-refined drummer of the Modern Jazz Quartet (not playing the shakers on our SoTW). And the other star of the album, the one who drives the magic carpet, Richard Davis, for my money one of the two finest acoustic bassists in jazz (alongside Ron Carter). Oh, yes, and the singer. Van Morrison.

We’re going to focus on the title track here. To tell you the truth, I looked at the lyrics for the first time just now. There were a number of phrases I’ve been transported by for42 years without ever understanding–”immobile steel rims”, “talkin’ to Huddie Ledbetter”, “puttin’ on his little red shoes”. Those go alongside the images I did hear correctly: “If I ventured in the slipstream between the viaducts of your dream”, “standin’ with the look of avarice”. I don’t mind that I never caught some of the lyrics. They’re less important than “she come up to my room” in ‘Gloria’, believe me. They’re the paints that Van the Man uses to create this masterpiece. They’re just colors.

The song ‘Astral Weeks’ is over 7″ long, but has only 3 short verses (they start “If I ventured”; at 0:55 “From the far side”; and at 3:35 the first verse repeats.) Most of the song is embellishments on this structure following the second and third verses. Van’s rhythm guitar plays two chords over and over, I and IV. Richard Davis’s bass propels it all forward. And Van’s singing. I’m not even going to try to describe it. It’s a miracle. Just take a listen.


If you enjoyed this post, you may also like:

116: Van Morrison, ‘Tupelo Honey’

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026: Andy Bey, ‘River Man’

Posted by jeff on Aug 2, 2013 in Song Of the week, Vocalists

Real life raised its ugly little head last week (wedding, singing, working), and I missed the local performances of Andy Bey, the most interesting performer to visit our little sliver of the world since I missed Kurt Elling in Eilat 16 months ago (but who’s counting?)

Andy Bey is an obscure, gay, HIV-positive, black, pianist-baritone. Despite his incredible talent, he’s managed to maintain his obscurity over the course of a professional career that’s been going on now for 63(!!!) years, since he was eight. In the late 50s and early 60s he and his sisters Geraldine and Salome were pretty popular in Paris. And this very fine clip of a jazz version of Besame Mucho from 1965 for some bizarre reason makes me think that Stills, Nash and Crosby would stand at attention and salute it.
Bey worked with Horace Silver and Cecil Taylor and taught singing in Europe, “But you have to be isolated in order to be really focused. I’ve always been able to survive somehow, and I’ve been through the dark tunnel many times. But I always come out a little more enlightened, a little more aware.” Well, he certainly remained in that dark tunnel commercially, until a pair of releases, “Ballads, Blues and Bey” (1996, just him singing and playing) and “Shades of Bey” (1998, from which our SoTW is taken), and the brand-new “The World According to Andy Bey” (2013) have brought him some modicum of attention.

In this TV segment you can hear him at his best, in Duke Ellington’s ‘In a Sentimental Mood’. By definition, you’d have to call him a baritone crooner, but that doesn’t really tell the story. He’s not really a crooner, because he never falls back on easy sentimentality—at his best he’s mucho sentimental, but always with hard-core, genuine passion. And that voice, that voice. He has a crystal-pure baritone timbre with the range of a pedigreed tenor. He sings the octave and a half above middle C without a falsetto—just gently, flawlessly, effortlessly. Those of you who aren’t baritones maybe don’t get the miracle of physics that entails—something equivalent to a sumo wrestler trying to fly, which is what I feel like when I try to climb up to those heady heights. He does it with such grace and aplomb that you would think baritones were meant to sing up there. The guy’s stretching the limits of the concept ‘range’.  With impeccable taste, yet. I hate people like that.

Anyway, Andy was kind enough to sing our SoTW for us, ‘River Man’, written by Nick Drake. Nick offed himself in 1974, at 26, ‘a complete unknown’, with 3 flop LPs. His suicide was, as they say, a great career move. His Keatsean celebrity has been burgeoning ever since. Andy Bey went through the tunnel, and came out on the other side.

We usually don’t like these crossover gimmicks, but I will admit that from the 6 Andy Bey CDs I’ve been listening to over the last couple of weeks, that’s the cut that consistently reached out and grabbed me. And sent me running back to try Nick Drake again (4th time maybe; not even the treatment of the song by that fine pianist Brad Mehldau did that), to try to figure out if he really is the cat’s meow that so many “young” people seem to think he is. Well, they can keep thinking. I’m not convinced. His vision is vapid, his wistfulness is wastefulness, his aura is air. Go listen to Donovan for a hermaphrodite with toughness in the brain. But, damn, that ‘River Man’ is one fine song. Evocative, elusive, intriguing. And when performed by a singer with Andy Bey’s technique—his resonance, his virile timbre, his gravity-defying breath control—it’s a memorable cut, I think.

Betty came by on her way
Said she had a word to say
About things today
And fallen leaves…

You can hear the Swingle Singers’ version of ‘River Man’ and other fine songs here.

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033: Radka Toneff, ‘The Moon’s a Harsh Mistress’ (Jimmy Webb)

Posted by jeff on Apr 15, 2010 in Nordic, Rock, Song Of the week, Vocalists

Everybody goes for a love story. Okay, here’s one. I’m in love. Love at first sight.
Well, maybe not love. But real, true, deep infatuation that will last at least until I open my eyes.

The biggest problem right now is that I have a lot of trouble remembering her name. Radka Toneff. You have to admit, that’s objectively a hard name to remember, even if you’re in love with her. Just as lovers revel in reconstructing how they first met, I’m trying to remember how I stumbled on her. I guess I was looking at all the YouTube hits for ‘Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most‘ or – hey, Jeff, the music?

Radka Toneff (1952-1982) was a Norwegian singer “of legendary stature”. Well, in knowledgeable jazz circles in Oslo, perhaps. For me she was new. But I’ve been listening to a lot of Scandinavian music over the last couple of years, and I’m working hard at cultivating that taste and broadening my knowledge.

I admit a certain bias towards Nordic singing. At its best, it’s flawless, perfect, precise, technically refined on a level we just don’t encounter in our more familiar neighborhoods. With male pianists, that can get pretty boring for me. But with female singers it can be intoxicating.

It all depends on the material. When my new love Radka (I need to practice using her name) hits on the right material–which she does sometimes, not too regularly–it can really be breathtaking.

For convenience’s sake, we’ll call Radka Toneff a jazz singer, though that’s not really accurate. She recorded a wide range of material – from rarified jazz to hackneyed pop, a pinch of Bulgarian folk (her father was a Bulgarian folk singer), with a little bit of soul thrown in, paying her Nordic dues to the mothers of her music.

If you did the math above, you got that she died at the age of 30. It’s usually called a suicide, but the fullest version I found (in English) says: “Her sudden death was described by newspapers as a suicide, but friends said that although she brought it on herself, it was an accident.”

A few weeks ago I wrote about Eva Cassidy, in Song of The Week 29. The similarities between Eva and Radka are rather uncanny. Eva died from cancer at 36, a restrained and tasteful singer of an unclassifiably wide range of material. If you remember Eva’s “Over the Rainbow“, especially as compared to the other versions we compared it to, it’s a model of good taste and control, of the tension created by strongly felt passion being expressed without histrionics—a fan dance of the heart.

Eva had no career whatsoever. Radka recorded 3 albums–”Angel Heart”, “Fairy Tales”, and the posthumously released “Live in Hamburg”. There are also 2 compilations of other cuts, and a lot of live videos in all kinds of settings–small combo, big band, orchestra, many with material not found on the CDs.

Radka’s material includes classic jazz. One of my favorites is her treatment of ‘My Funny Valentine‘. I have a lot of respect for that song, and I’ve heard it butchered and demeaned more often than I care to remember. Her version is heart-rending. (Ever wonder why singers always make the song mournful? The lyric is quite loving. Hmm.) There’s also ‘Nature Boy‘, sung pretty much perfectly, but a song I’ve never warmed up to; a Nina Simone; one by Kurt Weil and Maxwell Anderson!; two personal beatnik favorites of mine by Frances Landesman and Thomas Wolf, ‘Ballad of the Sad Young Men‘ and ‘Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most‘.

But there’s also a lot of ‘pop’ (ouch): Michael Franks, Kenny Loggins, an unfortunate Bob Dylan, 2 surprising Paul Simon selections (a lovely live ‘Something So Right‘ and the rightfully minor ‘It’s Been a Long, Long Day’), Elton John, Jerry Jeff Walker, our Song of The Week, Jimmy Webb’s ‘The Moon’s a Harsh Mistress’.

Her upbeat songs, and the ones that try to be black, are uniformly unsuccessful. Oh, but when she hits the bulls-eye, it’s right to the heart of your heart.

Jimmy Webb is a story to himself. Excepting Burt Bacharach, the only ‘non-performing’ (we wish) songwriter of our time to get his name above the title. He’s the auteur of hits such as ‘Up, Up and Away’ (5th Dimension), Glenn Campbell’s ‘Wichita Lineman’, ‘Galveston’ and ‘By the Time I Get to Phoenix’, and the Richard Harris epic ‘MacArthur Park’. That’s some very, very fine music there.

But there are a couple of problems with Mr Webb. First of all, he kept trying to become a singer, which only damaged his reputation. But more significantly, he was so talent-inebriated that he couldn’t walk a straight line, constantly teetering from the sublime to the grotesque, from the poignant to the maudlin. ‘Someone left the cake out in the rain’? C’mon. If that’s not bad enough, he (or someone) chose that as the name for one of the compilations of his greatest hits. Jimmy Webb, haunting at his best, embarrassing at his worst.

I don’t want to detract from those Glenn Campbell songs. Glenn Campbell is also a story in and of himself. (Why do people say I ramble?) He was a studio guitarist on Blonde on Blonde!!! He has the God-given voice of a cowboy angel, and the good sense and taste and intelligence of a Texas Longhorn steer.

Glenn Campbell had the initial hit of ‘The Moon’s a Harsh Mistress’. Judy Collins also got a hit out of it (you’re lucky I couldn’t find that on YouTube—it’s a pretty horrifying experience), as did Joe Cocker (well, Joe, you know). It got a lovely, respectful treatment by  Charlie Haden and Pat Metheny on “Beyond The Missouri Sky”. Versions such as Jimmy Webb’s own and that of Joan Baez, believe me, you don’t want to hear.

It’s not hard to get why so many people want to do this song. The title, by the way, is that of a novel by Robert A. Heinlein, “about a lunar colony‘s revolt against rule from Earth. The novel expresses and discusses libertarian ideals in a speculative context.” (Thanks, Mr Wikipedia). What that has to do with this lovely song is beyond me. Listen to the mean modulation at “I fell out of her eyes,” right at the shift in the lyric from the outer to the inner.

The one other version I do recommend you take a listen to is that of Linda Ronstadt. We Americans think of Linda as having a pure, gimmick-free voice. Well, listen to her version. Then listen to that of Radka Toneff. I’m sure you’ll hear how precise, fine, dignified, and moving a singer she is. And maybe you’ll see why I used to be in love with Linda, but now it’s Radka who holds my heart.

See her how she flies
Golden sails across the sky
Close enough to touch
But careful if you try
Though she looks as warm as gold
The moon’s a harsh mistress
The moon can be so cold

Once the sun did shine
Lord, it felt so fine
The moon a phantom rose
Through the mountains and the pines
And then the darkness fell
And the moon’s a harsh mistress
It’s so hard to love her well

I fell out of her eyes
I fell out of her heart
I fell down on my face
Yes, I did, and I — I tripped and I missed my star
God, I fell and I fell alone, I fell alone
And the moon’s a harsh mistress
And the sky is made of stone

The moon’s a harsh mistress
She’s hard to call your own.

If you enjoyed this post, you may also enjoy:

029: Eva Cassidy, ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’

045: Julie London, ‘Bye Bye, Blackbird’

080: Tim Ries w. Norah Jones, ‘Wild Horses’



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