Good Doc: Full of fail yet again

And the radio spittin' out Charlie Rich
he sure can sing, that son of a bitch

 

Damn, an old Waits reference. Solid off-topic posts on this thread.

Just noses out "I Like Beer" as my favorite Tom T. Hall song. Did Rich cover it?

Charlie Rich was a fucking genius and amazing talent- as a songwriter, vocalist and pianist. Never got the acclaim he should have since his stuff was a blend of genres- blues, jazz, pop, country and gospel- and didn't really fit the demands of the marketplace. Tied with Cash in my book for most talented musician ever to come from Arkansas.

 

Between Maggie in "Sherrybaby" and now your quoting obscuro Waits lyrics from "Nighthawks," I'm starting to feel very bipartisan here.

wi -- I heard the Fox cover it on the radio somewhere down South a while back. Pretty decent, but not Tom T.

 

Quick, WI. Very quick.

Putnam County is about as great as anything I've ever listened to.

 

My dad, who was born in 1921, used to say "draining board."

 

Fenian, as much as we butt heads over politics, I've always thought we were a lot more alike than either of us would admit. Let's put it this way: If you're ever back visiting the town of your alma mater, let me know. The first few would be on me.

 

New year's good will all around. And for all you benighted youngsters out there, here's the obscure Waits talking-jazz-piano tune "Putnam County." Probably composed near daybreak in a Old Gold-scented room at the Tropicana Motel as the bard, then a young man, was probably taking the edge off of a Johnny Walker headache with a little nickel-bag schwag and coffee from the 7-11.


I guess things were always quiet
around Putnam County
kind of shy and sleepy as it clung to the skirts
of the 2-lane that was stretched out like an
asphalt dance floor- where all the oldtimers would
hunker down in bib jeans and store bought boots
lyin' about their lives and the places that they'd been
suckin' on Coca Colas and spittin' Days Work
until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge and
the taverns would be swollen until the naked eye
of 2 am, and the Stratocaster guitars slung over
Burgermeister beer guts, and the swizzle stick legs
jacknifed over naugahyde stools and the
witch hazel spread out over the linoleum floors,
the pedal pushers stretched out over midriff bulge
and the coiffed brunette curls over Maybelline eyes
wearing Prince Machiabelli, Estee Lauder,
smells so sweet
I elbowed up at the counter with mixed feelings
over mixed drinks
and Bubba and the Roadmasters moaned in pool hall
concentration as they knit their brows to
cover the entire Hank Williams Song Book
and the old National register was singing to the
tune of $57.57
until last call, one last game of 8 ball
and Berneice would be putting the chairs on the tables,
someone come in say "Hey man, anyone got
any Jumper Cables, is that a 6 or a 12 volt?"
and all the studs in town would toss 'em down
and claim to fame as they stomped their feet
boasting about being able to get more ass
than a toilet seat.
And the GMCs and the Straight 8 Fords
were coughing and wheezing and they
perculated as they tossed the gravel
underneath the fenders to weave home
a wet slick anaconda of a two lane
with tire irons and crowbars a rattlin'
with a tool box and a pony saddle
you're grinding gears, shifting into first
yea and that goddam tranny's just getting worse
with the melodies of "see ya later"
and screwdrivers on carburettors
talkin' shop about money to loan
and palominos and strawberry roans
See ya tomorrow, hello to the Mrs.
money to borrow and goodnight kisses
the radio spittin' out Charlie Rich
sure can sing that sonofabitch
and you weave home, weavin' home
leaving the little joint winking in the
dark warm narcotic American night
beneath a pin cushion sky and it's
home to toast and honey, start
up the Ford, your lunch money's there on the
draining board, toilet's runnin' shake the
handle, telephone's ringin' it's Mrs Randal
where the hell are my goddam sandals
and the porcelain poodles and the glass swans
staring down from the knick knack shelf
with the parent permission slips for the
kids' field trips
pair of Muckalucks scraping across
the shag carpet
and the impending squint of
first light, that lurked behind
a weeping marquee in downtown Putnam
and would be pullin' up any minute now
just like a bastard amber
Velveeta yellow cab on a rainy corner
and be blowin' its horn, in every window
in town.

 

Pure poetry set to piano and bass. I just had to stop the shuffle on my iPod and put this on.

 

If it's not Charleston or Morgantown, y'all can get fucked.

 

here, here's a match and a couch. that should keep you busy all evening.

 

I'll listen to your lame insult on my heritage when your wife gives you back your balls, Tomas.

 

at least i retained mine for a few years, my friend. i'm putting the over/under on your sack ending up in the little woman's purse at a single year.