He's the one we all say "hail" to.
From “The Makers of Smooth Music”, here are some songs about Presidents:
I've posted clips of these before, but these are the full songs - bandwidth usage limits be damned! Here are the lyrics.
And some people think the recent Obama adulation is unprecedented. They are wrong.
Merry Saturday.
Here's a collection of short songs (21MB download). It's called "<void>".
These songs were written in the last month or so. And, out of all the things I've done under the name "Smaller Animals", I'm confident that these are the most recent, by far. I'm sure you'll agree.
So here it is: rough and ready to ... do whatever it does. I hope you make it a part of your X-Mas celebration.
It's a rut. It's a half-pipe, a local minimum, the bottom of a soup bowl. It's a pony who wandered into a valley he could not leave. It's the rolling of a marble, on the bottom of a boat at sea. It's this song. It escapes, but is frustrated and angry when it does. This is your song.
'Tis the season for giving! So here, dear reader, is my gift to you: a song about love.
To set the mood for this, picture yourself on a boat, on a river. There's a party. And there's a drunken band playing Sea And Cake covers on the top deck. And nobody's listening to them. Why would they ? And the boat's rocking to, and it's rocking fro, and you've been breathing diesel exhaust for an hour. To your dismay, you've eaten something salty and a little sour that's assaulting your pyloric sphincter. You fear, with sweaty hands and beaded brow, that if you don't do something about it now, the sphincter at the other end of your alimentary canal will soon have to deal with this shrimp or clam or oyster or whatever creeping sea creature had gone bad before you had to go and eat it. And the toilet's small and smells like ass, and there's a line of women an hour long in front of it anyway. So, you lean over the rail, throw your tie over your shoulder, and you sing, in the reds and oranges and tans of a shipboard appetizer buffet.
And that's where babies come from.
Once upon a time in Rochester, NY, in 1991 or thereabouts, there was a young man with a 4-track recorder, a guitar, a drum machine and a bass borrowed from the guy across the street. And one winter's day this young man cobbled-together a weak-ass little funky song without words or title. It used the FUNK1 program on the drum machine, but other than that, it had no soul and no reason to exist. But there it was, nonetheless, on that cassette inside the VistaFire 4-track recorder. And there was a track left over, unused.
That night, the young man and his six roommates journeyed down the road to an unassuming place called The Salty Dog, where they drank Genny 12-Horse and ate scores of chicken wings: three different kinds, including a batch of garlic-parmesan wings that were surprisingly good. They drank a lot. Their uproarious laughter filled the bar. In time, they left the bar and went back to the apartment, for it was late, and they were full, and out of cash. It was probably a Tuesday.
Shortly afterwards, back home, the young man and the other young man he shared the basement with were in the basement, eating potato chips (because they were young and they were drunk, they forgot they were so very full minutes ago). And then the young man saw the 4-track recorder, cued to the start of the song from earlier that day. Inspiration struck! He put on the headphones, pressed record, picked up the microphone and started, dear reader, to sing, drukenly. Though he had no ability and no right to be doing so, he could not resist - the muse could not be denied, you see.
First, he sang the customer guarantee from the back of the Wegmans potato chip bag, embellishing a bit where it needed more oomph. Then he sang about the young man he shared the basement with, Mike, the future-dentist, who was sitting on the stairs, not sure what was happening. Mike, who could not then hear, and had never before heard, the music, was puzzled, insulted and probably a little ashamed at what he was witnessing; and yet he was amused.
Then the young man sang of the rest of the roommates, Steve, Doug, Audrey, and the rest. Then he dropped the mic and lost his train of thought. With thirty seconds left to go in the song, the young man did what any reasonable man would do in his situation; he obeyed the muse! Dear reader, he picked up that microphone and started to sing again! He sang, in that shaky shaky voice of his, not of guarantees or his too-numerous roommates, instead, he sang of good things! He sang the delicious potato chip and buttermilk pork chop recipe from the back of the potato chip bag! Inspired, and yet barely comprehensible in its brilliance. And then he finished it off with a kiss. Mike sighed at the pathetic spectacle and sarcastically chided the young man, "Now that's a rap!".
But, Mike's derision could not erase what had just happened; the weak little song that should never have been born became the Smaller Animals classic, Mike. And here on this web page, I present it to you so that you can hear what true inspiration sounds like.
The young man has not drunk Genny 12-horse since.
One thing I've learned in the ten years I've been living in North Carolina, is that there really is such a thing as "Southern Hospitality". But, it's hard to describe in words. It's one of those things that can only be expressed in song. And so, back in 1998, on a record called "Context", I put together this little tribute to the good people of the south. It's called Y'all Come and it's based on something I heard on a Lawrence Welk show. And so, as you can imagine, it's about as honest and down-home as a song can ever be. All the warm welcoming joy of a Southern home is wrapped up in these short two minutes. We had a grand old time putting this together for you! All the family plays along on this one - Sanford is strumming the guitar, Clayton's on the banjo, Fuquay and Varina are singing backups, Garner's got a good grip on that washtub bass, and wee Moncure is tappin that triangle like a sweet little angel. I hope it conveys to you, dear listener, the flavor of true Southern Hospitality, something which is nearly indescribable in mere words.
Feel free to sing along! The words are easy!
And don't forget to eat your greens:
Here's a heartwarming song I wrote back in 1993, or therebouts, about a day in the life of a darling little schoolgirl named Ilsa. On this musical tour, we get to listen in while Ilsa chats with her teacher and fellow students about the mysteries of life - such as they are for 10 year old girls. You might be surprised how much there is to learn about your own life, by observing the life of a little pixie like Ilsa ! Ah innocent youth.
Modesty forbids, but objectivity demands, that I point out how this song surpasses even a master work like Vintage, Like Old Times in sheer brilliance of musicality and technique - I was really in the zone for this one. The delicate but intricate guitar work on display here is truly top-notch. I dare say that even the great Esteban would be hard-pressed to duplicate the agile, yet tasteful, runs I pull off here. And careful listeners will be pleased with the subtle way the dialog from the nearby television interacts with the gossamer backdrop of electric and acoustic guitar, forming a whole that is far greater than the average of its parts.
Ilsa is an early masterpiece from Smaller Animals and it has stood the test of time, touching the hearts of dozens over, lo, these near-15 years. I hope it touches your heart, in a nice way. But, no refunds can be given, in case it does not.
Here's a little song I wrote, it's called Vintage, Like Old Times. It's about family and friends, and good times had by all, in the long long ago, in the before time - as the lyrics make clear. For me, the whole thing comes together in the third chorus, where I modulate, twice, on the word "love", as a choir of angels, summoned by the outpouring of pure love and generosity I'm recalling, sprinkles golden raindrops upon my forehead (played here by the tubular bells and Glockenspiel); that's where the heart is. That's what it's all about. I hope you feel it, as I do. And I hope this nostalgic look back at traditional family values and the meaning of inter-generational love finds a place in your family's songbook, as it has mine. Music is the gift of one heart to another; it's love. It's all you need. It's all there is. Enjoy. Peace out. Please don't litter.