Thursday, July 11, 2013

ThaR was a Twang Mong thA LonesOme WinD (working draft intro to POny PayRoLL BonEs talKin CountrY musiCs)

BeloW is a workin Introduction(?) draft to PonY PaYroLL bOnEs tALkIn cOuNtrY mUsiCSSSs.  THe book compiles all of my country music "articles" in one place plus extras...thar shall be manY editions of this cuz tha articLes will keeP on happenin.  maybe try to make//print some hard copies in next 4-6 months...send some commenTs this weeK. this is a rough ruff drafTiN----

At the bottom of the draft I have included some photos I took down in Tennessee above Chattanooga in Appalachia.  The cemetery was in the beautiful shade of mountain shadows and sun beamed infusion hills.  The photos seem to speak a certain aspect of country music.

                                                    pHoTo bY MattheW ponY paYroLL BoNes--(((empty third                  room at buckingham been recordin alot here ---Ole brYan Keith MartIn's OlE rooM)))

ThaR was a Twang MonG thA LonesOMe WinD

Yes, thar was a twang mong tha lonesome wind. SurE have sure heard that lonesome twang many a times.

 Heard thaT lonesome train whistle chill shatter the very bone.  Heard thaT demon whipperwill amongst tha suicides of hard workin men and women and childrens.  Saw some old dogs die.  Saw tha world was mean and full of confederate love.  Saw some good folks die.

I hear some bodies hammerin a body up on Calvary day and night night and day.  Two thieves and a king.  The whole earth soaked with deaths.  Cold Lonesome nights, yer blood and even yoR marrow geT downright mean with lonesomes.

In tha X-raY negatives of memory.  The family dog was barking at reconstruction horse thieves.  I am starting over.  Facts feelings--Fools fevers--Feverous no good tramPs…

Fair requests. The stars were pools of water. The stars are pools of water. 

Two barn owls go hollering hoot screeching inside the geographic geometry of Autumn.  Inside the country of blue tinted glass blue autumn.  This is a memory.

“ I felt my hands shaking I felt my heart breaking.  He meant every word he said.  I saw him whisper something. I saw you look so happy”—Ricky Van Shelton.

White flowers line the steep slopes upon the ridge and hills above Panther Creek, North East Georgia---Alabaster flowers blaze with white flames.  Dark oaks dark maples. Dark because the sun is not shining above the countryside, the wilderness anymore.  I am one of many who have come through here.  Who are passing through here.  You are not here with me.  This I knew---- you would not be with me here.

Those places some with names. Some with no names yet you can feel the names talking rambling broken dialogues, proclamations—Listless chatter was butchered many many years upon years upon years ago.  Like a river that swallows large stones

Shiny hands over tha Georgia red dirt.  Stains your soul----do you like “In The Ghetto?”  Do you like “Stranger In My Own Home Town”?

No one can leap over yor shadow.  No one can Leap/over your shadow---

Dark light provokes sobriety’s devastations—hand me down my walking cane and hand me bacK down that whiskeY bottle.  That Ole Crowe and Ancient Age for suRe.

For God’s sake our eyes as apparition sails or canoes rocking against each other a terrible cold winter day upon one them lakes the Tennessee ValleY AuthoritY made with apocalyptic ease.

Tha sonG below be onE PonY PayRoLL boNes is crafTin.  It goes roughly like these words wretchin below.  They go.  Here theY go:

Some dumb ass kids were yellin upon me when I walked out thaT fronT dooR/I thrown some bourbon in my coffee so I could jus keep movin/I was walkin past tha graveYar/I was walkin past tha cemetery graveyard/I was waltzin by tha graveyard cemetarY/when thangs got funny/ya thangs got funny/I breathed in a ghosT/I breathed in a ghost/that’s righT!/I breathed in a ghost/got possesion got ghost possession upon me/got ghost possession upon this meat/them ghosts whisperin thangs in my heart/them ghosts swimming in tha rivers of my cavern heart//ain’t no liquor makem drown/ain’t no liquor make them ghost drown/whiskey bourbon tequilla gin/yea I got some ghosts twangin tha troubles of tha heart/I breathed in a ghost one day/It was called Country Music//gotta get my lonesome ass outta this dirtY Ole ciTy//

Part II

I been diggin up boNes!  I’m weeping tears of blood.  I’ve been threatin tha neighbor’s dog.  I’ve been cheatin on your cheatin wife.  Show you right!  Buncha fooLs in this blackberrY briaR worlD.  Buncha fooLs make this fooLish worLd.

Broom can’t sweep up the wet blood and dust on Sundays.  Behind the left eye the stone that recognizes you. Darkening road veiled darker through dolorous creaking of pine trees. Georgia pine treess.  In memory --you are a corpse time stranded in the Victorian era.  “they” forgot to bury you with a compass….that’s how we got a lot of that old country music.  Ole Jimmie Rodgers getting Tuberculosis blood all over the Victorian guitar songs.  Ole Jimmie Rodgers gittin blood cough all over Sarah Carter’s apron as A.P jus kept lookin tha other way. 

A.P. saw some things up in them mountains and growling hollows.  He saw for himself that some hollers go down in a hollow and git stuuckkk.  The whole thang is very lonesome very.  So such that Lonesome got lonely and shivers ---shivering a bunch of lonesomeness.

When A.P. Carter was born-- a paint or what they also called a Mountain Lion or more commonly a Cougar--- tried at done stealth into that open window (all windows were open then to tha weathering elementals of God’s mightY wraith and writhing) one room log cabin and eat ole A.P’s babY head right off!

Now adays not many fools and folk play dulcimers or zithers or autoharps.  Now  adays not many lap steel country players round either.  Usta be a dime a dozen, those lonely lonely electrical lap steel playas.  Not many Pete Drakes or fantastic REAL LIFE musics like Inspirational Instrumentals by Camp Family and Davis Brothers.

Not many Johnny Mauldins either and like he is very much so like his long playing LP titled with proclamation subtlety , An American Original.  Gregarious in his holy honesty the man sang spitefully about those “Shyster Lawer “(s) whilst also understanding the awe inspiring supernatural of experiencing “Thunderstorm Over Amarillo.”  Today, at least you get Johnny Corndawg, a man who does the best he can with the sadly states of country musics today.

I wanna meeT the Gentle Shepherd Getar player Ralph Trotto up in heaven or down in lickin hell some these days.  I wanna shake hands with these mysteries.

According to Appalachia lore, it sure is bad luck to throw yor shoes at a funeral coming by your way!

Come along and done giT killed with me down in the deep hollers and hollows neath smokey blue ridge haze and valleYs chortle darkly.  Here the heart is wet rawness pulsing wildlY.  True emotions writhe in feverous throe.  Let us giT drenched soaked to the sinful bone in the holy ghost blood twang.

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