The fire burned up to the river
Skinned
Wanting
But true.
Across was pristine ripeness
Leafy
A traitor
Corrupt.
A mallard cut through the conflict
Poised
Fluid
Just.
Knowing the score would settle
For soon
Comes autumn
And rust.
- Matthew Francis Andersen
w/ John prine
Hope your Saturdays in February are as nice as mine.
Been staring at “iMovie” on my Mac for a year now. Gave it a whirl tonight with today’s beach footage. Coulda been a happier song, I guess…but, hey, it was a cloudy day.
When Lincoln won the war
He was buried six feet deep
Grant took all the glory
But Johnson gave the speech
The union was restored again
All hallowed, pure, and bright
Illinois regained its boy
All bathed in liquid light
When Lincoln won the war
They crowded old Saint James
The bells rang like a symphony and
Shattered window panes
The sermon turned from somber
Into a thunder storm
Mary wept and danced a step
When Lincoln won the war
When Lincoln won the war
He cashed a check that day
Eight hundred made out to himself
For dinner and a play
The check went to Ohio
The play came to the Ford
The curtain rose, the lights went out
When Lincoln won the war
When Lincoln won the war
He took a shot instead
It echoed down to Dallas
Now an Irishman is dead
It anguished all the spirits
Embittered every soul
The curse of old Tecumseh rose
When Lincoln won the war
- Matthew Francis Andersen
I’m in Lima, Peru now and I’ve been here for about two months.
The list of what I miss about Chicago is as long as my arm: Fitzgerald’s Nightclub in Berwyn, guitar pickin’ parties, my fellow songwriters, and Coors Light, just to name a few. I’m certainly out of my comfort zone here. Back home if I needed a music fix Fitzgerald’s was just a bike ride away. In fact, a time or two Bill and Kate Fitzgerald would personally put me in a cab or drive my drunk ass home themselves. Comforting indeed.
Luckily, I found a spot that might help take the edge off my forlorn soul. It’s a genuine beatnik folk club called Posada Del Angel and it’s in the bohemian district of Lima called Barranco. Actually, it’s a circuit of locations with nightly folk performers. Every hour or so a new artist takes to the tiny stage. Then he moves along the street to the next location, and so on, and so on.
There isn’t a huge indie or original music scene here. Unless you’re already famous not many audiences care to hear what you gotta say. Cover songs are the norm here. All sung in Spanish, of course. Sometimes they’ll take a stab at an American song. I once heard “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door.” But secretly I think it was played for me. The sole gringo.
In listening to these songs I have come to learn the work of latin songwriters who, for many latinos, are the equivalent of my Prine, Springsteen, Earle, Ritter, and Foucault. Upon seeing a room full of patrons quietly listening to lyrics my comfort zone returned. Suddenly I was transported back to Fitzgerald’s Sidebar music room.
Naturally this led me to investigate the songwriters who were being covered. What amazed me was how familiar I was with their styles. Imagine, artists singing in Spanish to Americana-styled music. I was floored!
So that’s my rounda bout way of getting to my point. I thought some folks here may be interested in knowing about a couple of these artists.
Joaquin Sabina is from Spain. One of my favorite tracks is Contigo, which has pedal steel in it (sorry for silly video but original is unavailable in USA). And Aves de Paso, a song reflecting on past loves.
Silvio Rodriguez might be seen as the Paul Simon of Latin America. His song Ojala is a staple of latin folk music.
Lastly, I want to pass along a song from a Peruvian band called Bareto. They do not play Americana. But this song never fails to get my feet moving and reminds me of hot summer nights inside Fitzgerald’s. Adios, y’all.
Silverware and wedding dresses
Wooly bears and walleye fishes
A marching band is kicking at
The frozen ground so cold
Whiffle balls, billiard halls
Late night drunken break-up calls
The carousel is spinning through
The window to the world
Flannel sheets, a veggie pizza
Nothing beats a quesadilla
Abalone’s daddy’s gone
But mamma is a pearl
Gravel pops out on the driveway
Summer evening, empty highway
Old jar ain’t but a firefly’s
Window to the world
- Matthew Francis Andersen
I had a chat about songwriting with Johnny Burns.
Mostly known as a guitarist, Johnny also wrote some songs with John Prine (Shop Talk and Its Happening to You).
Anyway, Johnny told me that whenever he and Prine would get stuck during a songwriting session they would fix this by putting the song away and writing a different song about some inane subject, e.g. Prine’s sweater…the front lawn…the cat in the corner.
His point was to not stop writing, rather, just purge what ya got inside of you onto some other topic. Upon returning to the original song your path will be clear.
Naturally, Burns said, he and Prine wound up with many notebooks and bar napkins filled with songs about poorly dressed felines with landscaping companies.
It’d be nice to hear those songs too, I bet.
Write on, friends.
The sidewalk’s swept in cheap cement
‘Long a stretch of old screen doors
You slide through town
Like socks on a parquet floor
The meter maid’s just been paid
So gorgeous, dressed in green
She works her beat
Then slips into the sea
Christ of the Pacific and
All the corner mystics
Know what you and I don’t know and
Lay their plans before us
The buses and the combies
Shooting through the palm trees
None of hers and all of his
Here in Miraflores
- Matthew Francis Andersen
