McKeon's Coming
© 1985 Gordon Bok , BMI
The story goes that McKeon was a fisherman from Canada. Had a little schooner; ran it with his son or another man. Back during Prohibition, the lucrative trade of smuggling booze into the States attracted many people, and McKeon was one. Unfortunately, he got caught, his schooner was impounded and sold at auction, and he was thrown in jail in Massachusetts. When he got out years later, his health was ruined, and it took him almost two years to work his way back home.
Now when the wind is bright with the spring and the snow has gone away
The days grow long and the time has come to hoist my sail and go
And I'll hear no more your dungeon door, nor eat your bitter beans
Surely it's a long and a hungry road 'til McKeon's home again.
I'll go down by the Naskeag sound where the tide runs fast and strong
The water's deep and the hills are steep and the nights are cold and long,
And through the rocks of Jericho I'll wind my weary way
And roll her off for Sable, aye, and the grey seals of Fundy.
For the wind is fair and the tide's at the spring and the time has come to go
Hoist my sail on a Northern wind and I'll be on my way.
Ah, but there's no one to go with me and there's no one at my side
Surely it's a long and a lonely road for the Straits of Canso.
One of the many versions of this song I've heard. I don't even remember where this version came from, it was so long ago. I wrote the two verses about the Canso girls, meaning no harm; any person referred to in those verses is purely fictitious, or lives somewhere else.
I'm A rambler, I'm a gambler,
I'm a long way from home.
And the people that don't like me
They can leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry,
I'll drink when I'm dry.
And the whiskey don't like me,
I'll live 'till I die.
If you go down to Canso,
Don't go there for long
For their dark eyes are pretty,
But their fingers are strong.
They'll anchor your drifting,
In their smiles and their thighs,
And their dresses will bind you,
And there's gold in their eyes.
There's changes in the ocean,
There's changes in the sea,
There's changes in my true love,
There's no changing me.
I'm a Rambler, I'm A gambler,
I'm a long ways from home,
And the people that don't like me
They can leave me alone.
A tune that came out of my work on the film "Coaster," about the building of the schooner John F. Leavitt . I developed the theme for some footage of the boatbuilders and sailmakers; it seemed to have the right "gait " for that work. Since I couldn't talk the great ragtime pianist, Glenn Jenks , into playing for that section of the film, I had to imitate his smiling fingers as best I could.
I used to play blues quite a bit in my youth, but I learned a style mostly from piano players like Bob Bannard (who was a Jimmy Yancey fan), and Capt. Bill Peterson. This is basically the version that Leadbelly sang, but the hurry-up guitar is not very Leadbelly at all. (Dedicated to Emily Friedman.)
Duncan, Duncan was tending the bar;
In walks Brady with a shining star.
He says, "Mr. Duncan, you are under arrest."
And Duncan shot a hole in Brady's breast.
Brady carried a forty-five;
They said it would shoot a half-a-mile.
Duncan carried a forty-four,
And that's what laid Mr. Brady so low.
Brady fell down on the barroom floor;
"Please Mr. Duncan, don't you shoot me no more."
Women all crying, ain't it a shame,
Shot King Brady, going to shoot him again.
"Mr. Brady, Mr. Brady, you know you done wrong,
You busted in my parlor when the game was going on,
Knocking down the tables, breaking down the doors,
Now you dripping blood on my barroom floor."
Well, the women all heard Brady was dead,
They go back home and they dressed in red.
Sniffing and sighing down the street,
In their big Mother Hubbards and their stocking feet.
Learned this on a steel, dutch-built sloop from from a young fellow from South Caicos named Harold Wilson.
Taught him a few chords on guitar one year, and when I took over as captain of that boat, he taught me a few songs fro the Caribbean.
Harold learned the guitar quite quickly, and made his brother (who worked on another boat in the neighborhood and whose name I have forgotten)
a little jealous thereby. So, while Harold played and sang, his brother used to play that boat like a harp, or a steel band. The guitar is
trying to imitate me and Harold and Harold's Brother all at once, here. (This one can give you blisters.)
The three boats in this song were, according to Harold, rum-runners. A favorite trik, in those days, was to make a run, bring the boat ashore.
paint her a different color and take her back out again. Harold said that the U.S. Feds were fooled by that, off and on.
I rely a lot on phonetic memory, here; Harold pronounced the third boat's name in a variety of ways, and I'm not sure we ever really
understood each other, anyway. Here's my best shot:
Belamena, Belamena, Belamena's in the Harbor,
Belemena, Belamena, Belamena's in the Harbor.
Put the Belamena on the dock
And paint the Belamena black,
Paint the Belamena Black, black, black
When she come back she was white.
Oh the mystery, Oh the mystery,
she used to carry whiskey.
Little Mystery, oh the Mystery,
Little boat very frisky.
Put the Mystery on the dock...(etc)
(Here I had trouble: every time he sang the boat's name, he pronounced it differently...)
Oh, Inagua, Great Inagua (name of island) (Lady 'Nagua?),
She got stuck in New York Harbor,
Oh, Managua (?), Late Inagua (?),
Carried a very funny Cargo.
Put the Inagua on the dock...(etc)
Dave Berry, from Bowdoinham, Maine, and I used to do some sailing together. He came back from Italy one year with some lovely tunes, which he played on the mandolin. These are two which I remember.
Ray Wales, of Perth, Australia, brought me this song on a tape many years ago. He knew nothing about the song
or the singer. Ray went back to Australia, the tape got lost, but I remembered the song pretty accurately, it turns out. Emily Friedman,
of Chicago, finally tracked the song down, with the help and kindness of the brilliant Austrlian story-teller, Kel Watkins,
who not only found the original rendition I had heard, but taped that and a reading of Lawson's original bush ballad for us.
Emily believes the original was shortened for singing by a Peter Dicky, and the version I heard is beautifully sung by Dave De Hugard,
with concertina accompaniment. My Thanks to everyone involved. I give the text here the way De Hugard sang it; the differences in these
(1) on the track
(2) swagmen
(3) bread makings
(4) pan for tea
(5) pipe
(6) lost
(7) blanket roll
The tentpoles are rotten and me campfire's dead,
And the 'possoms may ramble in the
trees overhead.
I'm out on the Wallaby I'm humping
me drum, ( 1)
And I come down the road where the
Sundowners come. (2)
It 's Northwest by West over ranges
afar
To the place where the cattle and
the sheep stations are
With the sky for me roof and the
earth for me bunk,
And a calico bag for me damper and
my junk, ( 3)
And it's scarcely a comrade me
memory reveals,
Though the spirit still lingers in
me toe and my heels.
My tent is all torn and my blankets
are damp·
And the fast-rising floodwaters flow
down by the camp.
The cold water rises in jets from
the floor
And I lie in my bed and I listen
to it roar
And I think of tomorrow, how me
footsteps will lag
As I tramp beneath the weight of
a rain-sodden swag.
But the way of a swagman is mostly
uphill,
Though there's joy to be found on
the Wallaby still
When the day has gone by with its
tramp and its toil
And your campfire you build and
your billy you can boil (4)
And there's comfort at least in
the bowl of your clay (5)
Or the yarn of a mate who is
tramping that way.
But beware of the cities where
it's poisoned for years
And beware of the dangers in drinking long beers.
When the bushman gets bushed (6)
in the streets of the town,
When he's lost all his friends and
his cheques are knocked down,
Well he's right 'til his pockets
are empty and then
He waltzes old bluey (7) up the
country again.
© 1976 Gordon Bok, BMI
I have always felt a little cheated by life that I had never been in a situation where I felt sorry enough for myself that I had to write what Pete Seeger calls a "navel" or a "bellybutton" song.
Well, it finally struck. Years ago I was bringing in an old wooden boat from Connecticut to Maine. Ran out of crew about the time the weather started going crook. Threw my back out trying to get an anchor out of the mud. Crippled around Newport for three days in the cold June rain, looking for any unfeathered biped who would help me get the slab a little farther along the coast. No luck. Got blisters on my butt rowing in wet dungarees. Got wet, too.
Got a raving NW wind one day and decided to have a go without any help (had to use the jib-sheet winch to get the anchor off the bottom; always wondered what those noisy round things were for…) Slammed out of there with half a bag of sail on and headed her East.
Ended up off Mattapoisett harbor with the weather getting glommy again; decided to get off my feet for the night so I worked her in there and anchored, got the sails off her. Brownell workboat came out and told me, since it was going to blow Northeast, why didn't I take their mooring… over there. Got the anchor up and went over to pick up their mooring. Realized that, with the wind Northeast, I was halfa mile downwind of the town wharf… again.
Piled into that ridiculous plastic dog-dish they called a rowboat and pulled ashore in the rain. Called home, went back down the "rowboat" and, as I was shipping the oars, got a humongous splinter in the crotch of my hand. Blew downwind back out to the ketch. Went below, started the leaky stove to get the damp out, got out the hydrogen peroxide, the knife and the oilstone. Looked at the splinter, got out the run. Properly anesthetized, I was working on the splinter and it occurred to me to wonder what was for supper. Realized it was Saturday night, raining, town was a mile's row and a mile's walk after that…
A couple of days later I found most of this song, along with a list of groceries (existent and non-existent) in the logbook.
PS- my thanks to Ken Hicks, that outrageous gentle-man from Virginia, who allowed me to rip off a bit of his fine song "Half the Fun of Going is Getting There."
Here I am, man, all alone again
Anchored away the hell and gone again
Another mile from another town
Wind Northeast and the rain coming down.
Home is the sailor, home from the sea;
A home for the mildew, friend to the flea –
I don't care, man, I'm happy.
I got an old fat boat, she's slow but handsome
Hard in the chine and soft in the transom
I love her well; she must love me
But I think it's only for my money.
No more tobacco, no more cheese;
I'm sprung in the back and lame in the knees.
It's a damned good thing I'm easy to please;
There ain't nothing in town on a Sunday.
You know, I got milk and I got ice;
I got home-made bread, a little old, but nice.
Everybody puts their cooking hat on
When you tell 'em you're leaving in the morning.
Yes, I got coffee, I got tea,
I got the beans and the beans got me.
I got tuna fish, I got rum,
I got a two-pound splinter in my thumb.
So I'll take my toddy and my vitamin C
And the radio for my company.
Oh, me. I got the hydrogen peroxide blues.
Well mercy, mercy, I do declare
If half the fun of going is the getting there,
Mercy, Percy, you better start rowing,
'Cause the other half of getting there is going.
Trent Sorenses brought John Roberts to my place a good many years ago, guessing rightly that we'd be kindred spirits. This is one of the many fine songs John sang for me that night. I've been enjoying his music when an where I can, ever since.
As I was a-walking down Birmingham Street
In my new scarlet jacket all neat and complete,
The young girls all smiled as they passed me by,
Saying, one to another, "There goes Ramble Away."
And as I was a-walking down Birmingham Fair,
I spied pretty Nancy a-combing her
hair.
She smiled in my face and to me
did say,
"Ain't you the young fellow they
call Ramble Away?"
I said "Pretty Nancy, don't smile
in my face
For I do not intend to stay long in
this place."
"Oh, then, where are you going? Come
tell me my dear."
Well, I told her I'd ramble, the
devil knows where.
When twenty-four weeks they were over
and past,
This pretty young wench she grew
thick 'round the waist
And her gown wouldn't pin nor her
apron strings tie
And she longed for the sight of young
Ramble Away.
So, come all you young maidens take
a warning by me.
When courting your fellows don't be
easy and free.
Don't dress yourselves up and go out
on the play,
For it's there you might meet with
young Ramble Away.
Ramble Away,
Oh. it's there you might meet with
young Ramble Away.
This is in Dave Goulder's book of songs called the January Man and Other Songs. I ' don't know what all else is in the book, save for "The Dark North Sea,"which is one of the most lovely songs in the English language. This song represents one of his many facets; his songs are so distinct and different from each other that the only consistent denominator is their quality.
It was in the falling summer rain
I found myself one day, sir,
And I met a young man with a bird in
his hand
And this, to me, did say, sir.
"This bird you see has been with me
Since the 23rd of May sir ... "
And all the time the rain came down
In a most unpleasant way, sir.
Well I looked at the bird in the
young man's hand
And the bird looked back at me sir.
'Twas a vulture plain from the hills
of Spain
I could so clearly see sir.
I said "I fear it's waiting here
For you to pass away sir."
And all the time the rain came down
In a most unpleasant way sir.
Well the young man shook his head
and cried,
"Whatever shall I do, sir?
For I swear it's only right and fair
That I give this bird to you sir."
I answered. "No, " and turned to go,
But something made me stay sir ...
And the bird was sitting on my arm
In a most unpleasant way sir.
So, here I've stood upon this spot
For many's the night and day sir
For who could tend my feathered
friend
'Til you came by this way, sir?
And now, the bird to you transferred,
I can no longer stay, sir.
For it hurts to see you look at me
In that most unpleasant way sir.
Two Irish tunes. I learned these from Cliff Perry and Richard Scholtz, two fine musicians from Bellingham, Washington. Their love and consideration of the music is a thing to behold; if you like a tune they're playing, they happily stop the world and play it until you can never forget it. A couple of years ago they played "Bonnie Galway" for me on my birthday, after a long flight to the west coast. They played me to sleep with it, one of the nicest birthday presents I've ever had.
Over the last few years, Judy and I have corresponded off and on, to my everlasting benefit. She first sent me some verses to a song I wrote ("Hearth and Fire") which were so singular and striking that I took the liberty of writing a melody for them on their own. Having told her that, I was rewarded by receiving two more songs she had written over the next couple of years, "Boat of Silver" and. "Blackbird." Fine songs, fine poetry. Carlisle, Massachusetts, should be proud.
Blackbird, blackbird flying late
Grease in the pot and ash in the grate
They barred the door and they shut the
gate,
They've got no place for me.
My bottle's empty and my head is sore;
I don't know where I've been before.
Bar your gate and shut your door,
The blackbird 's flying free.
Where have I been to? I don't know.
Broken fiddle and crooked bow
Holes in my boots and I'm walking slow
As the last long shadows fall.
The boat I sailed lay down in the tide
The horse I stole got lame and died.
I don't need a friend; I don't want
a ride.
The blackbird knows it all.
What's this song the blackbird hears?
I sowed my days and I reaped my years
A basket of sins and a bucket of
tears,
And I can't come in to stay.
My life's a tale that I don't tell,
I did my worst and I did it well;
I never got to heaven but I stayed
out of hell
And still I'm on my way.
Where am I going to sleep tonight?
I can't turn left and I won't turn
right,
Where the road goes on in the cold
moonlight
And the lonely blackbird cries.
I'm going to sleep in a lonely bed
With white and whiter linen spread
A cold grey stone at my foot and head
And pennies on my eyes.
I'm going to sleep in a lonely bed
With white and whiter linen spread.
A cold grey stone at my foot and head
And pennies on my eyes.
I am told that, even though this tune is now played on the island of St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands as a “folk” tune, it was originally written by the jazz musician Sonny Rollins. I learned it from Debbie Suran, who learned it from Andy Cohen, and in the transition from guitar to hammered dulcimer to 12-string, I can’t vouch for the accuracy of my version of it.
(Season to Season)
I love to touch things that give me life and livelihood; I've built and carved in wood, and revered it, since I can remember. When I'm holding something that precious to me, I try to draw back to a quieter, more careful time, tune into the master builders and carpenters who were my childhood heroes, and the younger ones who are walking in their tracks. This little series of questions came together when I was working on the film "Coaster," about the building of the schooner John F Leavitt.
For Malcolm and Lloyd and Gene and Cecil and Orvil and Nick, and to Havilah too, to whom I owe the ten fingers I so proudly wave.
Is there no change from season to season
Save the wearing of sea on stone,
Save the wearing of wind on water,
Save the passing of man alone?
And is there no change from living to dying,
Save the passing from place to time,
Save the passing from form to forming,
Save the passing from dream to dream?
And is there no change from dying to living,
Save the wearing of tool on beam,
From formless to form, from taking to giving,
Dream to question,
Question to answer and dream to dream?