{"id":617,"date":"2014-02-11T15:32:45","date_gmt":"2014-02-11T15:32:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/site\/?page_id=617"},"modified":"2019-10-13T09:47:07","modified_gmt":"2019-10-13T13:47:07","slug":"album-summers-end","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/?page_id=617","title":{"rendered":"Album: Summer’s End"},"content":{"rendered":"

Preview or Download tracks or the entire album at:<\/strong>\u00a0Bandcamp<\/a><\/p>\n

\"Garnet<\/p>\n

1. The Road to Tobermory 2:20
\n2. Old Campfires 2:47
\n3. The Sweet Spot 6:08
\n4. Our Boy 6:00
\n5. Shadows in the Water 4:00
\n6. Sleeping 3:55
\n7. My Old Man 4:30
\n8. Summer’s End (1) 6:10
\n9. It’s a Gift 7:12
\n10. Did Trouble Me 6:20
\n11. Summer’s End (2) 5:43<\/p>\n

Bonus Tracks<\/em>
\n12. Sailor’s Rest 6:27
\n13. A Fireside Chat 6:66<\/p>\n

\u00a92014 Snow Goose Songs<\/p>\n


\n
\n\"\"\"\"<\/p>\n

After releasing “Get a Witness”<\/em> in 2007, I came to the decision that I might be finished with recording.
\nMy method of working was part of it; an intense and frenzied state of self inflicted madness lasting usually 2 or 3 weeks, where I would start with band sessions for 3 or 4 days, and then a week or so of my overdubs… (guitars, violins and flute and whatever else was at hand) then mixing , and finally presenting to the world the result… which may or may not have been what I had intended.
\nIt was difficult on me and everyone around me, and the 2 or 3 weeks surrounding the live sessions of ” Get a Witness” resulted in a physical and emotional collapse for me and a resolve to never go through it again.
\nThere was also the downloading issue, my opinions on which I won’t bore you with here, except to say I won’t be part of someone else’ business model which is predicated on me giving them for free what they are selling at a profit.
\nNew songs came and went, largely unsung and forgotten.(I found the constellation of tiny red lights as people switched on their cameras during shows to be distracting…and the results posted later on Youtube were embarrassing.)
\nSo I went on strike.
\nI have continued to play and love live shows, but the new means of distributing music was baffling me, and it felt better to walk away from it.
\nWhile all this was going on, my elderly parents, Al and Valerie Rogers, both began to fail, and most of my energy and my wife Gail’s energy turned to caring for them during their long and difficult slide. Work became very much secondary to the more urgent needs of my family.
\nMy Mother passed away in June of 2012, and my Dad passed in January of 2013.
\nIn the wake of all that, coupled with the loss of several old friends, most notably my dear and much loved friend Bill O’Neill, of Ottawa, I felt very much as if another whole chapter of my life had closed. My immediate blood family had vanished, a treasured friend was gone, and the world now looked very different.
\nSo in May of last year, I looked through some notebooks and realized I had a group of songs which largely reflected what had been going on in my life, both good and bad, and I decided to make a record of them, if only for myself.
\nI needed to feel creative and connected to my world again, so I resolved to end the strike.
\n(Besides, nobody had noticed.)
\nWhether one might be able to sell enough copies to re coup the production costs became somewhat secondary to me. I simply wanted to make a record after all that had gone on.
\nSo in June I went to Scott Merritt’s studio and we began to set down songs in a much more relaxing and enjoyable way…just me with a guitar, with the idea that we would decide later what else, if anything was needed.
\nIt was a lovely way to work.
\nScott’s wife Sue, is a master gardener and Scott and I would begin the day by sipping tea and watching the hummingbirds and bees at their work outside the window. As the seasons passed the scene would change, and as we were doing the final sessions in the new year, the leaves had changed colour and fallen, the hummingbirds had long since departed and now the jays and juncos and cardinals were staging their own production of West Side Story in the snow atop the feeder.
\nAs the colours changed in the garden so did our idea of what shape the record would take.
\nWhat we arrived at was a much quieter and more stripped down sound than I had imagined at the outset.
\nSo, for all those well meaning folks, who have over the years asked me if I had any recordings of just me and my guitar with none of “that other electric shit”…here you go.
\nAnd for those who more kindly say, “Where is your fiddle?…I miss your fiddle,” the answer is that Gail and I were in a serious car crash some years ago, (an SUV drove through us at a stop light) and playing is painful now, if not sometimes impossible.)
\nThe string tracks you hear on this record are largely courtesy of massive doses of Ibuprofen. That being said, I also have missed the fiddle (and the cello and the viola too), and am happy to have them on this record.
\nThanks as always, to David Woodhead for his beautiful and sensitive playing.
\nThanks to Sue, for the beautiful photos, her friendship, and her ability to move like a Ninja upstairs while Scott and I were trying to capture the most intimate nuances of various fragile and antique instruments downstairs.
\nAnd to Scott, whose friendship and patience and beautiful artistry means so much to me. I went into this project knowing only that whatever happened, I wanted (for the first time in my life ) for it to be a collaborative effort.This is my 4th project with Scott, and he has proved to be utterly without ego as regards the music, and unlike so many others who sit behind the mixing desk, has never made a suggestion for any reason except to serve the project.I knew that going into this that were I to run into a snag or a dead end, he would find some graceful way out.
\nAbove all, I need to publicly thank Gail, who once again had to live with a distant and distracted husband for the better part of six months. We were sitting in a restaurant one night early in the project and in the middle of telling me a complex story about her day she noticed my inattention and asked what I was thinking. I had to tell her that I was trying to figure out how to play an Eminor sus 4 something- or -other chord in a not-quite C, not quite G tuning…the result being that I was pretty much useless as a dinner companion.
\nAs always this record is for her.back to top<\/a>A Note on the Instruments<\/strong>
\nIf you aren’t a “Guitar Geek” you might want to move along…
\nThose who come to the live shows have come by now to expect to see on stage a row of elderly and antique guitars each of which has for me, its own distinct personality and sound, history, (and, in some cases) a unique set of problems in terms of playing.
\nI have been searching out and collecting vintage guitars from what is considered the Golden Age of American luthiery for some years now…mostly Gibsons, and mostly from the years 1928 to 1946. Part of the fun of it for me is simply the search and the human factor in each discovery and transaction. I have met so many extraordinary people over the last 20 odd years of collecting, in places like Sioux City Iowa (where I found the only Martin in the collection…a 1943 000-18 formerly owned by the guy who wrote the song “Convoy”)…to Calgary, where a former WWII Mosquito pilot sold me an Epiphone Frontier to get the funds he needed to buy a GPS for his ultra light plane. He was 80 some years old, and his wife wouldn’t let him drive the Harley anymore after he crashed it…He was a feisty little cricket of a man, who six months later, as I predicted to him, flew the plane into power lines and died. (“Better that than dying in a hospital bed full of tubes,” he had said when I warned him of how foolhardy I thought he was being.)
\nIn Kalamazoo Michigan, I met Aaron Cowles, a sweet and gentle former employee of the Gibson company, who was a not only a wonderful builder, but had an encyclopedic knowledge of the company history, dating back to its founding.
\nHe be-friended me and built for me a couple of wonderful slope shoulder Jumbos based on the design of the actual 1934 Jumbo he sold me…a guitar so rare and desirable that I had never seen one live in all my years of searching. It is this guitar which is mostly heard on this recording. Holding it and playing it is like being in a cathedral with strings stretched across the ceiling.
\nAaron passed on just before this record was finished, and I cannot pick up one of his guitars without thinking about him and reflecting on a life well lived…He was a kind and humble and generous man. I was lucky to know him.
\nThe other guitars are a 1953 Gibson J-200 which I found on the Web…a model I always coveted as it was the first good guitar I had ever seen as a child, watching my uncle Norman Bushell play…and a Gibson J-45 from 1942…another rarity from the first months after America finally entered the War, and built without a truss rod, due to the shortage of metal. The Gibsons from this period were mostly built by women…the” Rosie the Riveters”who took over when the men were doing war service.
\nThe other guitar of interest on the record is from 1904 or 1905, as near as I can reckon…another Gibson, also from Aaron, and which is so rare and so bizarre in design and execution as to defy description. It is the guitar one hears on “Summer’s End (2)”… a massive carved instrument finished in black and pearl, with a hollow neck. If Darth Vader had spent some time as a professional wrestler and then decided to become a folk singer, this would be his guitar. It is so early an instrument, and so rare that although it has a model designation, (Model O) I have yet to see two examples made the same way…the handful I have seen pictures of all differ wildly. It is difficult to play, being so big, but wonderful beyond words to have vibrate next to one’s chest.
\nThe two electrics are an early 50’s Les Paul, and a 12 string octave mandolin\/ guitar made by my friend Mike Spicer at the Peghead in Hamilton Ontario.
\nThe nylon string guitar on “The Road to Tobermory” is a plywood number from Brazil…I paid 90 bucks for it and it sounds fine…go figure.
\nThe violin I used is a French Medio-Fino…a pawn shop find from the early 20th century, and is my go to fiddle when I am able to play.
\nThe viola and the cello are both of German make and from the late 1800’s….both again pawn shop finds from Philadelphia and Fargo ND respectively.
\nDavid played a Steinway from the late 20’s and his basses were his usual home made fretless Fender bass, and an upright of uncertain parentage.
\nSorry for the excessive detail, but some people really want to know this stuff…and to others , they just sound like guitars.back to top<\/a>Thanks as well, to<\/strong>
\nMike Spicer, John Templeton, Chris Pahud, Roger and Gertie, Troy and Jennie, Chris Greencorn, Juanita and Mike, Georgette, Joan and Dana, Mercedes Wilson, Archie Fisher, and particular thanks to Susie and Karla and Cynthia and Jeff and Jim at Flemingartists, whose friendship and support during the last few years has been steadfast and unflagging.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

1. The Road to Tobermory.<\/strong>
\nA tune in memory of my dear friend, Bill O’Neill. Bill was for 20 years one of the best friends I have ever had, or expect to have. He passed in April of 2013, and I still feel the loss on an almost hourly basis.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

2. Old Campfires<\/strong>
\nA poem written by my maternal grandfather, Sidney Bushell and set to music by my brother Stan around age 15 or so.The shore referred to in the song is where I spent the happiest hours of my childhood, just west of Canso NS.<\/em><\/p>\n

These well loved places we often have seen
\nare hidden now where our fires have been.
\nBlack ashes lie beneath the silent snow.
\nNow burnt-out, hopeless embers
\nthese we know.
\nThey wait for us and Springtime, you and I
\nonce more shall linger here
\nand by and by
\nthese dreary shores will be decked in green again
\nThis silent ice shall disappear and then
\nthese stark grey stones, new-decked with fronded fern
\nshall smile again to welcome your return.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

3. The Sweet Spot<\/strong>
\nWe bought a small house in Canso a few years back, right on the harbour, a short walk from the house where my grandparents lived when I was a child. It is a wonderful thing to be able to re-visit and re-connect with the scene of one’s childhood. I am grateful to have been accepted into the community and to have made so many friends there.<\/em><\/p>\n

There’s a half moon above the tumbling clouds.
\nthe road is dark and wet.
\nsilent forest to the right of me
\ncold water to my left
\ncold water dark and restless
\nbeyond the wind-blown trees.
\nhalf an hour or more now, to the door
\nI’m fumbling for the keys.
\nAnd in the morning sunlight fills the room
\nspills across the floor
\ncoffee in the kitchen
\nbright flowers ’round the door
\nlate at night there’s candlelight
\nand a window on the west
\nlights across the harbour
\nin this town I love the best
\nI found the sweet spot….<\/p>\n

Now my footsteps bring me
\nwhere as a child I stood
\nSweet fern uncurling to the sky
\nsweet mayflower in the wood
\nWest wind on the water
\nthe day is cool and fair
\nBlack tea on a driftwood fire
\nsweet woodsmoke in the air
\nI found the sweet spot…<\/p>\n

across the miles I miss you love,
\nand hold you in my heart
\nfrom the moment I first saw you
\nI loved you from the start
\nall the years that went before
\nI knew what I had missed
\nthat night beneath your porch light
\nthat night that we first kissed.
\nI found the sweet spot…<\/p>\n

Never wanted fame or money.
\n(Well maybe not that much…)
\nI want your smile I want that kiss
\nI need your healing touch
\nI want that look that’s in your eyes
\nwhen I look back at you
\nWant to find that sweet spot
\nfind it here with you….<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

4. Our Boy<\/strong>
\nListening to a Canadian Forces major describing his unit’s work in Afghanistan, guarding young girls and keeping them safe from the Taliban as they went to and from school.<\/em><\/p>\n

Well you’re too late.
\nI’m sorry you missed him.
\nHe was standing right here
\nnot an hour ago.
\nhe threw his bag in the back seat
\nwe hugged and we kissed him.
\nHe got into the car and pulled out on the road.<\/p>\n

He put a hand to a pocket
\nand he pulled out a cigarette
\nI know he said that he quit
\nI guess that he lied
\nHe blew smoke out the window
\nI saw his eyes in the rear view
\nonce last wave goodbye and we all went inside.<\/p>\n

And he left you a letter
\nwhich he said not to open.
\nIt’s up on the desk
\nby the bed in your room
\ntry not to fret
\ntry not to worry
\nBut if he comes home at all
\nit won’t be any time soon.<\/p>\n

We walked for miles on the back roads
\nin the days that he stayed here
\nI was ready to listen
\nhe didn’t have much to say
\nwe’d climb the high hill
\nby the stones in the church yard
\nlook down on the white caps
\nas they raced cross the Bay<\/p>\n

and the one thing he said
\nas we looked at the water
\nhe said, “I might make young bones
\non the old Kabul road,
\nbut one thing I know
\nif I’m not there beside them
\nsome other poor soldier’s
\ngot to carry my load.”<\/p>\n

“Time has its way
\nand it wears you down slowly,
\nIt wears you down slowly
\nlike water on stone.
\nBut in that last reckoning
\nthe best you can hope for
\nthe best you can hope for
\nis to not die alone.”<\/p>\n

The morning sky is like turquoise
\nlike lapis the shadows
\nas he watches and waits
\nin the dry Afghan Hills
\nThe sun rises quickly
\na high voice is calling
\nit calls on the faithful to do what God wills.<\/p>\n

and the young girls line up
\nsilent and watchful
\nsilent and watchful,
\nthe soldiers “stand to”.
\nand the radio crackles
\nthe order is given
\nthe convoy moves forward
\ndown the road to the school.<\/p>\n

As for me I’ve no answers
\nI have only questions
\nmaybe tomorrow will tell us
\nwhat yesterday meant
\nbut as for our boy
\nwhat time he is given
\nwhat time he is given
\nhe might count it well spent.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

5. Shadows on the Water<\/strong>
\nfor Bill Morrissey…<\/em><\/p>\n

When you get there, and I know you’ll go.
\njust a couple of things you’ll need to know
\nthey got a big old gate
\nbut that’s just for show.
\nThey been waiting on you forever.<\/p>\n

there’s a house beneath some trees.
\nthere’s a good old car, still starts with ease.
\npull down the visor
\nyou’ll find the keys
\nanytime you need to go.<\/p>\n

There’s a split cane rod, with 2 pound test
\nthere’s an old felt hat you like the best.
\nand there’s a book of flies
\nin a canvas vest
\nin the hallway by the door.<\/p>\n

And there’s a river, deep and cool
\nlots of shade, and sheltered pools.
\nthose damned trout
\nstill make you look a fool
\nthere’s just so much even God can do.<\/p>\n

Lots of shows to do in the little towns
\nThe good people come from miles around
\nthey got some genius up there
\ndoes the sound
\nand they always pay in cash<\/p>\n

brand new strings on the old guitar
\nthere’s a dark eyed girl sitting at the bar
\nand that charm of yours
\nmight get you far
\nor you could just win her with that sweet smile.<\/p>\n

So when you get there, say hello for me
\nthere’s music and there’s books and there’s poetry
\nlots of friends
\nfor you to see
\ntell them all hello.<\/p>\n

the river flows by deep and fast
\nclouds fill the sky…they don’t last
\nI’ve lost track of all the souls who’ve passed
\nlike shadows on the water
\nlike shadows on the water.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

6. Sleeping<\/strong>
\nfor my father<\/em><\/p>\n

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
\nIt’s long past time to seek your bed
\nAh, your face it looks so tired,
\nyour eyes are heavy
\nlay back a while and rest your weary head.
\nShouldn’t you be sleeping?<\/p>\n

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
\nThe last of the wine is almost gone
\nand the moon’s an empty glass above the harbour
\nand the world is turning to another dawn<\/p>\n

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
\nThe stars will all be fading in a while
\nand the wind is moving soft across the water
\nClose your eyes and rest,
\nYou’ve done your mile.<\/p>\n

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
\nthere’s still so much we didn’t say.
\nbut the candle’s guttered by a brightening window
\ntime to blow it out and slip away.
\nShouldn’t you be sleeping?<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

7. My Old Man<\/strong> Ewan MacColl
\nI first heard this song from Gerry Hallom maybe 30 odd years ago.The guitar arrangement is a vague approximation of what I remember of his.<\/em>
\nMy old man was a good old man,
\nskilled in the moulding trade
\nIn the stinking heat of the iron foundry,
\nmy old man was made.
\nDown on his knees in the moulding sand,
\nhe wore his trade like a company brand.
\nOne of Cyclop’s smoky band,
\nyes that was my old man.<\/p>\n

My old man wasn’t really old
\nT’was just that I was young
\nand anyone over 12 years old was halfway to the tomb.
\nHe was loyal to his workmates all his life
\nHe gave his pay packet to his wife.
\nhad a few jars on a Saturday night
\nyes that was my old man.<\/p>\n

My old man was a Union man.
\nfought hard all his days.
\nhe understood the system and was wise to the bosses’ ways.
\nhe said if you want what’s yours by right
\nyou’ll have to struggle with all your might
\nthey’ll rob you blind if you don’t fight.
\nYes, that was my old man.<\/p>\n

My old man was a proud old man
\nat home on the foundry floor.
\nUntil the day they paid him off and showed him to the door.
\nThey gave him his cards , said “Things are slack,
\nWe’ve got a machine now that’s learned the knack
\nof doing your job, so don’t come back.”
\nthe end of my old man.<\/p>\n

My old man was 51.
\nand what was he to do?
\na craftsman moulder on the dole in 1932.
\nHe felt he’d given all he could give,
\nso he did what thousands of others did.
\nHe abandoned hope and the will to live
\nit killed him
\nmy old man.<\/p>\n

My old man is dead and gone.
\nNow I am your old man.
\nmy advice to you my child
\nis to fight back while you can.
\nBeware of the man with the silicon chip.
\nhold onto your job with a good firm grip.
\n’cause if you don’t you’ll have had your chips
\nthe same as my old man.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

8. Summer’s End (1)<\/strong><\/p>\n

This night is still and quiet
\nsummer’s almost past.
\nthere’s a cricket with a socket wrench
\nin the dry and dusty grass.
\nabove our heads a breath of wind
\nis rattling the leaves.
\nThe last swallows of the season
\nhave fled their nests beneath the eaves.<\/p>\n

And you and I we sit together
\nin the dark beneath the trees.
\nI move my chair close to yours
\nas we sit and drink our tea.
\nWe talk together in the quiet
\nand try to reckon up the cost.
\nand bind our wounds and count the scars
\nfrom all that we have lost.<\/p>\n

And the days they hurry by.
\nrunning on together.
\nuntil you can’t recall a time before sorrow touched your heart
\nand left its mark on you forever.<\/p>\n

So maybe somewhere precious rain falls
\non a parched and barren earth
\nMaybe somewhere in a house filled with love
\nthere’s a mother giving birth.
\nA small child’s fever breaks.
\nparents breathe a prayer and sigh.
\nAnd a soul somewhere in deep despair
\nlifts his eyes unto the sky.
\nAnd I look the heavens
\nand I stare into the black
\nand I laugh at those who say God shapes the load to fit your back.
\nThere’s no Golden Throne beyond the Veil.
\nNo angel choirs above.
\nand Hell is just outliving everyone you’ve known and loved.
\nand all of those who we have loved and lost from near and far
\nthey’ve left us here to carry on
\nbeneath cold indifferent stars.<\/p>\n

And the days they hurry by…<\/p>\n

and so for now we muddle on.
\nI guess that is the way.
\nand try to look a little further down the road
\nand not just day to day
\nI know you’ll look out for me
\nas I look out for you.
\nand we’ll live in hope for better days.
\nIt’s the best that we can do.<\/p>\n

and the days…<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

9. It’s a Gift <\/strong>
\nCanso<\/em><\/p>\n

It’s a gift to me, this waking in the hour before the sunrise
\nit’s a gift to me, the light that gilds the waves across the bay
\nit’s a gift to me, the silence of this old house in the morning.
\nI watch the sky and weather, and begin another day.<\/p>\n

It’s a gift to me, these raucous gulls that wheel outside my window
\nI watch the sun climb higher and set to fire the morning dew.
\nsmall boats outside my window reflect their colours to the water
\nlike gaudy gypsy caravans, bright yellow, red and blue.<\/p>\n

There’s a young boy tossing pebbles in a tide pool in the Channel
\nThere’s an old dog on an errand on his way towards the town
\nI hear the voices of my neighbours. I see a sail out past the island.
\nsunlight through the gulls’ bright wings, slowly circling down.<\/p>\n

As a boy I walked these broken roads from sunrise until evening.
\nI knew each stone and tree that final mile up to the hill
\nStarlight through the clouds, dark trees on the horizon.
\nthe smell of rain and wood smoke…I remember, oh so well.<\/p>\n

Now I walk out past the iron bridge that reaches to the island
\npast brightly painted houses scattered down along the shore
\nI build my fire, I boil my tea, I stare out at the water
\nonce again I am that little kid I was long years before.<\/p>\n

There’s a heron in the shadows staring at his own reflection
\nthere’s a brown trout in the shallows in the lake behind the hill
\nhe waits, wide-eyed and silent, in the cold and tea-brown water.
\nhe’s like my heart before I knew you love, cold and dark and still<\/p>\n

It’s a gift to me, the sunset burning down the far horizon
\nto the East the fat moon rises past the steeple on the hill
\nand this day that I’ve been given, to walk and watch and wonder.
\nNight falls upon the little town. The stars are bright and chill.<\/p>\n

Its a gift to me, the stars that circle slowly ’round the roof tops
\nI turn my face to skyward to breathe in their ancient light
\nmy long years hover ’round me as I stand there in the darkness
\nthe night wind rises up, stirs the grass and whispers past me in the night.<\/p>\n

It’s a gift to me, the sun and stone and sky and wind and water.
\nThis harbour town that opens to a sea of endless blue.
\nand as the sky grows bright above me, my cup is running over.
\nand everything I have before me love, I’d give it all to you.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

10. Did Trouble Me<\/strong>
\nSusan Werner<\/em><\/p>\n

When I closed my eyes and would not see
\nMy lord did trouble me
\nwhen I let things stand that should not be
\nMy lord did trouble me
\nWhen I held my head too high too proud
\nMy lord did trouble me
\nWhen I raised my voice too little too loud
\nMy lord did trouble me.<\/p>\n

Did trouble me
\nwith a word or a sign
\nwith a ringing of a bell in the back of my mind
\ndid trouble me
\nand stir my soul
\nto make me human make me whole.<\/p>\n

When I slept too long, slept too deep
\nMy lord…
\nput a worrisome vision into my sleep
\nmy lord…<\/p>\n

When I held myself away and apart
\nmy lord….
\nand the tears of my brother didn’t stir my heart
\nmy lord…<\/p>\n

Did trouble me with a word, a sign
\nwith the ringing of a bell in the back of my mind
\ndid trouble me
\nand stir my soul
\nto make me human make me whole<\/p>\n

This I’ve learned, this I know
\nmy lord will trouble me
\nwhatever I do, wherever I go
\nmy lord will trouble me
\nin the whisper of the wind, in the ringing of a song
\nmy lord will …
\nKeep me on the path where I belong.
\nmy lord will….<\/p>\n

11. Summer’s End (2)<\/strong>
\n(I bought an old wooden boat.)<\/em><\/p>\n

Slim birches on the river bank
\nall dressed in white and gold
\nthe wind is from the north west now.
\nthe day is turning cold.
\nthis old boat’s the Ghost of Summers Past.
\nthe river smells like rain.
\nWe’ll turn once more now to the west .
\ninto the sun again.<\/p>\n

the days are growing shorter
\nnights are closing in.
\nbut surely as the winter comes
\nspring follows once again
\nthe sun will green the tender leaves
\nswallows grace the sky
\nbut for now we watch the shadows fall
\nhear the wild geese cry.<\/p>\n

And it seems hard times have found us, love.
\nhard times we couldn’t shake.
\nbrought us care and stripped us bare.
\nleft us trembling in their wake
\nbut I can see the light beyond these hills
\nas the sun slips to the south
\nwhere a warm bed waits, and fire light
\nand the sweetness of your mouth<\/p>\n

And if I have a wish for you
\nit’s not for wealth or treasure
\nI wish for you the sun and wind
\nrain in perfect measure
\nsunlight on clean water
\nclear starlight in your eyes
\nand my loving arms to hold you
\nin the morning.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

12. Sailor’s Rest <\/strong>
\nStan Rogers<\/em>
\nWith my brother’s music you pretty much always knew where you were and what was happening. He told beautiful clear stories and the message was always right there in front of you. I used to nag him occasionally to write something a bit more “oblique”, where the listener had to bring their own experience to the song and find the meaning. He wrote this in Minneapolis when we were playing the Prairie Home Companion show, and being billeted with a lovely couple who owned a house called “Sailor’s Rest”. Our paternal grandfather (Stan’s namesake) was around that time living out his last days at Camp Hill Veteran’s Hospital in Halifax NS. I have no doubt he is in this song. The song itself got played just once at its unveiling, and never entered the band repertoire, although at the time I thought (as I do now) that it was breath-taking. The only extant recording of it is from a show we did in Halifax where Stan brought it out as a solo encore. Unfortunately, someone had made the tactical error of leaving a bottle of Glenlivet in the dressing room and Stan decided to perform it in a sort of quasi-reggae style. This version is closer to the original as I recall it, and truer ( I hope ) to the song.
\n<\/em>
\nIt’s acrimony down in the card room
\nwith winning hands thrown on the baise
\nforgotten cards wait at the end of debate
\non the good old days
\nCaptains and mates getting testy
\nwith memories not of the best
\ntempers are rising
\ndown at the Sailor’s Rest.<\/p>\n

Blue eyes in wrinkled Morocco
\nstill search the horizons for squalls
\nZeros in the skies of the watch keepers’ eyes
\nand the pawn shop balls
\nSpice in the wind off of Java
\nand the bars in Papeete were best
\nThis deck is too steady
\ndown at the Sailor’s Rest.<\/p>\n

Oh…how they talk of the day they arrived.
\nwhen after the years, all the storms and the fears
\nstill very much alive
\nOh…how their lives were spilled out on the floor
\nfrom the battered old sea bags, the journals and logs
\nand the keepsakes locked in the chest
\nthat were stowed in the attic
\ndown at the Sailor’s Rest.<\/p>\n

No rail at the mess room table
\nand you’re dead if you spit on the floor.
\nNo grog allowed, no singing too loud
\nno locks on the doors.
\nBut there’s always a fire in the card room
\nand the tucker is always the best
\nand they’ll end this together
\ndown at the Sailor’s Rest.<\/p>\n

Oh…how they talk of the day they arrived.
\nwhen after the years all the storms and the tears,
\nstill very much alive
\nOh…how their lives were spilled out on the floor
\nfrom the battered old sea bags, the journals and logs,
\nand the keepsakes locked in the chest
\nwhich were sold at the auction
\ndown at the Sailor’s rest.<\/p>\n

It’s acrimony down in the card room…<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

13. A Fireside Chat<\/strong>
\nI wrote this as a joke one morning. It got a bit out of hand, as jokes tend to do, and more verses arrived,(and departed) depending on who was annoying me on any given day. After I performed it one night outside of Baltimore, a gentleman introduced me to a wonderful BBC Radio series called Old Harry’s Game. It is set in Hell, and is wildly funny. Well worth looking for. See as well, C. S. Lewis’ “The Screwtape letters.”<\/em><\/p>\n

You might have noticed the road was real bad
\nIt’s not really paved with good intentions
\nwe just flattened out some Wall Street guys
\nand those boys with their inventions,
\nlike Twitter and Facebook, man, you people love to talk
\nbut let me make it clear we’re glad you’re here.
\nlet’s you and me take a little walk…<\/p>\n

Step into the elevator, that’s right
\nthere’s just one button, DOWN.
\ntakes about a million years to get there
\nit’s along way underground
\nmeet Michael Bolton and Kenny G.,
\nthey’ll be playing just for you
\nall of your favourites, like “Little Drummer Boy”
\nyeah, and that song from ” Titanic ” too.<\/p>\n

So welcome to Hell
\nI got news for you pal, you’re dead.
\nWe prepared a special place for you
\nthe coals are nice and red
\nwe’ve been watching you your whole life
\nwe’ve heard every little word you’ve said
\nand I hope you’re feeling rested
\nYou got some busy days ahead.<\/p>\n

Hot enough for ya?
\nI love that joke, we use that all the time.
\nhere’s where we keep all the insurance guys
\nwith their lawyers and the mimes
\nWe got a lot of you self righteous folk singers down here
\nwe got you for a song
\nand we’ve got all those religious fundamentalists
\nturns out they were all fundamentally wrong…<\/p>\n

Hey Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, how you doing?
\ngood to see ya.
\nHere’s those tickets that we promised you.
\nseason’s pass to Mama Mia
\nWe got singalong Sound of Music down here
\nCeline Dion sings the lead
\nIt’s a rap version, I’m not kidding man.
\nIf that don’t make your ears bleed.<\/p>\n

and CNN is on here all the time
\nFOX news is 24\/7
\nWe got Glenn Beck and Anne Coulter down here
\nthey didn’t want ’em up in Heaven
\nand Rush Limbaugh teaches nude yoga
\nain’t that boy a sight?
\nand we send our laundry to Mitt Romney
\nHe’s trying to keep the world nice and …white.<\/p>\n

And we got al those Al Queda bombers,
\nmy god , they’re all crazier than squirrels.
\nthey all got their promised 72 virgins though
\n(none of them are girls)
\nand Lorreena Bobbitt is our surgeon general
\nshe volunteers here at night.
\nShe takes care of all those murder\/ suicide husbands and boyfriends
\nwho never could quite seem to get the order right.<\/p>\n

So welcome to Hell.
\nYou coulda been a better guy
\ncoulda loved your neighbour, maybe done some good.
\nYou never so much as tried.
\nNo point trying to bitch to me.
\nI only work here son.
\nand you seem to feel you’re being punished.
\nand you are.
\nWe’re just trying to make it fun.<\/p>\n

Oh look! there goes President Sarah Palin!
\nShe’s a Maverick…she’s a doll.
\nI hear she’s single these days …here’s her card
\nshe wants you to call.
\nShe’s written over a hundred books now
\nI’m not kidding man, it’s true.
\nThey’re required reading down Here by the way.
\nYeah, and you gotta memorize them too.<\/p>\n

Oh…look Stephen Harper in a Speedo bathing suit.
\nthat’s the kind of sight you only see in Hell.
\nStephen, you’re lowering the tone down here.
\nThat thing don’t fit you very well.
\nSpandex is a privilege, it’s not a right.
\nI thought by now you knew.
\nand besides you know, I don’t mean to get personal here
\nbut is it cold in here, or is THAT just you?<\/p>\n

Well, It’s about time you met the Big Guy
\ngot yourself settled in and such
\nIt the thing that makes him special
\nIt’s the extra little personal touch
\nIt’s quite literally a Fireside Chat
\nHe has it with all of you trainees.
\nThere He is ….Satan…Master of Flesh…Lord of the Abyss…the Great Destroyer…
\nno….that’s really Him
\nHe just likes to pretend he’s Dick Cheney<\/p>\n

So welcome to Hell
\nYou’re not gonna like it here
\nget your ass up on that barbeque
\nwe only serve American beer down Here
\nyou coulda lived a better life, maybe not been such a jerk
\nbut you made your bed, quit your whining
\nHere’s your banjo.
\nGet to work<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n<\/form>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Preview or Download tracks or the entire album at:\u00a0Bandcamp 1. The Road to Tobermory 2:20 2. Old Campfires 2:47 3. The Sweet Spot 6:08 4. Our Boy 6:00 5. Shadows in the Water 4:00 6. Sleeping 3:55 7. My Old Man 4:30 8. Summer’s End (1) 6:10 9. It’s a Gift 7:12 10. Did Trouble […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":6,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-617","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P7qHGF-9X","jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/617","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=617"}],"version-history":[{"count":48,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/617\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27638,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/617\/revisions\/27638"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=617"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}