Crooked Man
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - I wrote Crooked Man off of the B-C-F#-G riff that I was playing with one day, and the first verse ended up being kind of like children's verse. I developed the story that the further we get into the artistic life on the inside, sometimes our normal, outer lives become more crooked.)
Once I met a crooked man on a crooked road,
He said he had a crooked plan if I’d carry his load,
I took that burden from him, but then away he ran,
Now I am the crooked man.
I felt inside that crooked bag filled with rags and bones,
Until I found a crooked box and a crooked bow,
It fit my gnarly fingers and my twisted hand,
I am the crooked man.
When I played the crooked box, I could not put it down,
As I bowed the silver strings it made a golden sound,
But I became more crooked than when I began,
I am the crooked man.
Now my heart is fallen in, it keeps a crooked time,
But when I bow the crooked box I know I’ll never die,
I will not stop playing ’til I turn to sand,
I am the crooked man.
People say the road of life is long, straight, and true,
But they all dance a crooked dance when I play a crooked tune,
Why I must deceive them, I’ll never understand.
I am the crooked man.
Once I met a crooked man on a crooked road,
He said he had a crooked plan if I’d carry his load,
I took that burden from him, but then away he ran,
Now I am the crooked man.
The Streets of Charlottetown
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - We played up in Prince Edward Island a few years ago. What a wonderful place and I came away wanting to write a song. It's the same old message that is never heard until it's too late: in any war, it's the young and the poor who pay the price.)
As I walked out one morning,
On the streets of Charlottetown,
A sergeant said there’s need for good men,
To fight for King and Crown,
To fight for King and Crown.
I said kind sir I’ll sign your roll
For I’m one of the Prince Edward poor,
A guinea a day is a soldier’s pay
So I’ll join your royal corps,
I’ll join your royal corps.
We sailed three weeks upon the main,
Till we came to that bloody war,
Now I’ve a stone at my head and a field for a bed,
And I’ll see my home no more.
I’ll see my home no more.
And now they march upon my bones,
Soldiers young and brave,
Though years roll by, still they die,
And share my foreign grave,
And share my foreign grave.
So damn the wars that take the poor,
And damn the King and Crown,
If I had back that day, I never would stray
From the streets of Charlottetown,
From the streets of Charlottetown.
I Remember Memphis
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - I wanted to write a bluegrass song that Jimmy Martin might have recorded. I guess it fits the theme of the album about getting older, but in a lighthearted way.)
Many, many years ago when I was seventeen,
I worked on the river every day.
I would often dream about my Tennessee belle,
I loved her and Memphis was her name.
Now it’s been a few years since I’ve seen here,
And from what they say I guess I’m gettin’ old,
But when I recall her kiss,
I come to my senses,
I don’t know what I did today,
But I remember Memphis.
She was all of six feet tall or maybe five foot two,
Hair of brunette, blond or was it red?
I would look into her eyes of hazel, brown or blue,
Though I can’t recall a word we said.
Now I make a mental list and forget to bring it,
And my car keys lead a life of their own,
But when I recall her kiss,
I come to my senses,
I don’t know what I did today,
But I remember Memphis
I remember all those nights I’d sing her a song,
But there were times I might forget the words,
Then I’d make up anything that came into my head,
Butterscotch molasses talkin’ birds.
And I’ll ne’er forget the day that she left me,
On a summer night when snow lay on the ground,
But when I recall her kiss,
I come to my senses,
I don’t know what I did today,
But I remember Memphis.
Lantern Bay Inn
(© Janet Beazley, Four O Five Music, BMI - Janet wrote this song based on a true story about a murder in the Pacific northwest.)
In the island country of the stormy Northwest
Back in 1940 my wife and I met,
We ran an old tavern still standing today
On a windswept hillside above Lantern Bay.
Some days in the morning when my memory clears
I can still see the path leading up from the pier,
Where so sweetly the fragrant wild roses bloom
In the summer sun that would end all too soon.
Or when winter comes calling the sun stays away
And a wild Nor’ester blows storms to the bay,
A mind gets lost in the cold lantern light,
With only a bottle to cheer the long night.
We worked hard in summer but the winters were slow
And I dreaded the dark rainy months all alone,
For a bitter old woman my wife soon became
For her weary life she thought I was to blame.
I still can’t remember what happened that night,
Between the wind and the whiskey we often did fight,
But they found her next morning passed out on the ground,
And of her poor old husband was no trace ever found.
And when winter comes calling the sun stays away
And a wild Nor’ester blows storms to the bay,
Now my only friend is the moan of the wind
Through the dark empty halls of the Lantern Bay Inn.
Some say she killed me with my own hunting knife,
Some say I left without saying goodbye,
Oh, but cold blooded murder the jury decreed,
Now that poor old woman never more will walk free.
Now I float unseen on the cool ocean mist,
Past the bluffs and the overgrown hedges I drift,
Over blackberry brambles where the path had once been,
Leading up to the door of the Lantern Bay Inn.
And when winter comes calling the sun stays away,
And a wild Nor’ester blows storms to the bay,
A mind gets lost in the cold lantern light,
With only a bottle to cheer the long night.
Now my only friend is the moan of the wind.
Through the dark empty halls of the Lantern Bay Inn.
I See God Coming Down the Road
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - Somewhere I read that a month before Hank Williams died, he woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and said, "I see God coming down the road." My song is more about the old bluegrass adage, "You go to your church, and I'll go to mine.")
In this life we are given,
We all want to find a little piece of heaven.
But days go by and nothing lasts,
Before we know our time is past.
Some folks see a land of milk and honey,
A band of angels ‘round a golden throne,
You might see the power and the glory,
I see God coming down the road.
Sometimes he’s clear, sometimes he’s hidden,
We want to believe and we’d be crazy if we didn’t,
But if you look with your heart,
We might not seem so far apart.
Now I walk by his side,
He makes me laugh at my silly human pride,
If it were up to me, I would stay,
But if I have to go, I’ll go his way.
Some folks see a land of milk and honey,
A band of angels ‘round a golden throne,
You might see the power and the glory,
I see God coming down the road.
These Tears
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - One of my older songs that Tina Adair originally recorded. Janet does such a great job on it that we decided to record it. Always fun to have Roger Gillespie add percussion.)
These tears I remember, I cried them before,
These tears won't fall forever, they won't last much more.
These tears I cried so often, so long ago.
These tears I had forgotten, but now I know,
It only takes loneliness,
Emptiness, heartlessness,
All this to make these tears.
These tears once knew better whenever you lied,
These tears tasted so bitter when I swallowed my pride.
These tears once surrendered when I should have fought,
These tears would have warned me, but I never thought
I could have held you near,
Kept you here, made it clear,
I need you more than these tears.
After all this time,
Tears are rolling,
Down my face and I'm
Tears are rolling,
Suddenly suprised,
After all these years, these tears.
It only takes loneliness,
Emptiness, heartlessness,
All this when I should have held you near,
Kept you here, made it clear,
I need you more than these tears.
After all this time,
Tears are rolling,
Down my face and I'm
Tears are rolling,
Suddenly suprised,
After all these years, these tears.
The Crime at Quiet Dell
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - Our good friend John Lilly is a great songwriter/singer and the editor of Goldenseal, the West Virginia Cultural magazine and I'm
a subscriber. I read this story about a murder in 1931 in Harrison County, West Virginia, and wanted to turn it into a song. There was an original ballad
written at the time with the same title. On the way back from teaching at Augusta last year, we stopped in Quiet Dell and looked around a bit. Pretty eerie.)
Gather round good people, of evil I will tell,
Did you hear about the crime at Quiet Dell?
A little pig-eyed grocer is sittin’ in his cell,
Did you hear about the crime at Quiet Dell?
So if you love your neighbor, go home and get your gun,
We’ll drive the devil out of West Virginia in 1931.
Up around Clarksburg, there’s a little piece of hell,
Did you hear about the crime at Quiet Dell?
The police sent a message from Park Ridge, Illinois,
About a widow, two girls, and a boy,
They said a Mr. Pierson might be to blame,
But down here Harry Powers is his name.
They found that little coward and they dragged him in,
They beat him through the night ‘til he told them what he did,
Then he led them to the farmhouse and pointed down the well,
Did you hear about the crime at Quiet Dell?
He lured them with love letters and told them pretty lies,
They saw his fancy roadster and silk ties,
The women and their children, he brought to Quiet Dell,
And he kept them where no one could hear them yell.
So go and tell your neighbor, he’s sleepin’ at the jail,
We’re gonna hang the evil out of Harrison County so good folks will prevail,
Up around Clarksburg, there’s a little piece of hell,
Did you hear about the crime at Quiet Dell?
Brunswick Stew
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - My friend David Dowling of St. Augustine, FL, used to tell me about his dad who liked room-temperature Black Label Beer, and about an old witch doctor near Beaufort, SC. Those images stayed with me and came out in this song. Janet and I do this as a duet with bluegrass and old-time banjo. I was trying to conjure up the old, weird America.)
His eyes were silver as a winter moon,
He'd play for hours to an empty room.
I'd take him supper, he'd give me hell,
I'd take it back, and he'd yell,
I wish I was a young man, I know what I’d do,
I'd go back to Georgia and live on Brunswick stew.
A nickel or a quarter, by the cup or bowl,
Drink that flat black label and nevermore grow old.
His days were numbered and his nights were few,
He was gray but seldom blue.
Lord he made that banjar ring
And we danced when he sang,
I wish I was a young man, I know what I’d do,
I'd go back to Georgia and live on Brunswick stew.
A nickel or a quarter, by the cup or bowl,
Drink that flat black label and nevermore grow old.
It was late October of an early year,
He said, "Boy, let's get outta here."
Stole the Chevy and headed south,
We crossed the Ashley, he began to shout,
I wish I was a young man, I know what I’d do,
I'd go back to Georgia and live on Brunswick stew.
A nickel or a quarter, by the cup or bowl,
Drink that flat black label and nevermore grow old.
We never found the Fountain of Youth,
But he taught me a little truth,
If you make the banjar ring
They will dance when you sing.
I wish I was a young man, I know what I’d do,
I'd go back to Georgia and live on Brunswick stew.
A nickel or a quarter, by the cup or bowl,
Drink that flat black label and nevermore grow old.
When We Come Home
(© Janet Beazley, Four O’ Five Music, BMI - a beautiful gospel song by Janet)
Father, thanks to thee we send,
Everyday on thee depend,
Every start and every end
Will lead us home to you.
Firm our faith to hold thy hand,
Faith to follow in thy plan,
Faith that we will understand,
When we come home to you.
Wandering hopelessly lost in a world torn and used,
Guide our way through the dark till our time on earth is through,
When we come home to you.
Rock and clay below our feet,
Heaven’s door above we seek,
Heaven’s hope and heaven’s peace
Awake our souls anew.
Wandering hopelessly lost in a world torn and used,
Guide our way through the dark till our time on earth is through,
When we come home to you.
Though our lives unworthy be,
Hear, oh Lord, our prayers to thee,
Till the hour thy face we’ll see,
When earthly time is through,
When we come home to you.
Thirteen Steps
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - I was reading about the trial of Mary Surratt, the first woman ever hanged by the US Government. She was convicted of aiding and abetting John Wilkes Booth in the Lincoln assassination. It's a fascinating story and I'm not sure how much she was actually involved in it. Thanks to a descendant and audio enginner, Ben Surratt, for sending me some materials about her. This is about as historically accurate as I get in a song, but there's something in the details of the case that draws me into it. Gallows are usually built with thirteen steps to the platform.)
This morning I awoke to the sound of the hammers,
Building a scaffold high,
If the pardon don’t come from the president,
Today I will die.
Anna don’t you weep, my dear daughter,
I can stand anything but that,
Lay my body ‘neath a simple stone,
That says Mrs. Surratt.
One man pulled the trigger,
Two men told a lie,
Three men will hang with me,
And thirteen steps we will climb.
Mary Jenkins I was born on the Maryland shore,
Married at sixteen,
To a gentle man but we lost the land,
Then we had to leave.
To Virginia we did go, Prince George’s County,
Troubles there were few,
John did well in Surrattsville,
Till he died in ’62.
Four guards surround me,
Five words of hope,
Six feet they’ve dug for me,
Thirteen steps to the rope
In my boarding house up on H Street,
In the heart of Washington,
Many men passed, but I never asked,
Just friends of my son.
On that April morn, on Good Friday,
I saw John Wilkes Booth,
He said tell Lloyd to watch the store,
Cause they’d be riding through.
It’s the seventh day of seven,
Eighteen sixty-five,
Nine men said guilty,
And thirteen steps till I die.
They came for my son, but Johnny hadn’t told me,
Where he had run,
When I saw Mr. Wood I understood,
What those boys had done.
They say the war is through, the killing’s over,
I hear it in the psalm,
As I ask with my last breath,
Please don’t let me fall.
Ten weeks of prison,
Eleven is my name,
Twelve gates to the city,
And thirteen steps to the grave.
Ofer and Yesbuddy
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - Okay, I can't help it. I like dog songs and this is mine. The story's imagery is taken from the My Way Grocery in Burton, TX, near where my grandparents had a farm when I was growing up. There were all kinds of characters in that town, and it provides a good setting for the story. I've tried to record this in the past, but every band I was in wouldn't let me. I finally just said, I'm recording it! While I don't mention it in the song, the backstory of Ofer is that when he was young he played for the St. Louis Browns and only played in one professional game. He went 0-for-4, hence the nickname Ofer. Yesbuddy's name came about because nobody could be bothered to ever naming him, but he would respond to Yesbuddy.)
Ofer was a livewire, he was eighty odd years old.
He'd sit and talk by the feed store all day.
He had a dog that he claimed was three days older'n him,
And Yesbuddy was his name.
It was the hottest summer I recall, I was twelve years old.
Me and Yesbuddy'd sit at Ofer's feet.
He'd talk about the First World War and the old St. Louis Browns.
I'd listen and Yesbuddy'd sleep.
"A west wind's rising, it'll be here soon,"
I can still hear Ofer say,
"Come on, Yesbuddy, it's time to take it in,
This old crazy dog has had his day."
It was just after dinner on a July afternoon,
I'd gone down to the store on the square.
But what I saw made me stop and it took my breath,
In Ofer's spot was an empty chair.
My father sat on the step, rubbing Yesbuddy's ears,
I knew then what I'd be told,
'Cause as I sat I saw his face was streaked with tears,
He said, "Son, Ofer just got old."
"A west wind's rising, it'll be here soon,"
I can still hear Ofer say,
"Come on, Yesbuddy, it's time to take it in,
This old crazy dog has had his day."
For the rest of that summer we took Yesbuddy in,
And twice a day I'd fill his dinner bowl.
But I never saw him move too far from that old chair,
Till one day Yesbuddy just got old.
Now it's been nearly twenty years since I've been back this way,
And the feed store's been closed for most of that.
But there's still an old worn out spot where Yesbuddy lay,
Near the broken chair where Ofer sat.
A west wind's rising, it'll be here soon,
If you listen close you'll hear it say,
"Come on, Yesbuddy, it's time to take it in,
This old crazy dog has had his day."
Sojourner
(© Chris Stuart, Backcountry Music, BMI - I started this song on a trip up in Washington state, on the road, thinking about the lives
of all the traveling musicians who came along before us. I often dedicate it to Bob Paisley, one of the great bluegrass singers of all time, and father of
Danny Paisley, another great singer who recently recorded my and Ivan Rosenberg's song "Don't Throw Mama's Flowers Away.")
He was just an old sojourner, broke and beaten down,
From all those shows and all the roads to all those towns,
He lived his life on empty, barely hanging on,
Until I heard his sojourn at last was done.
Sojourner, rest your head,
You don’t have to sing tonight for supper and a bed.
So tell those angels where you’ve been,
Old Sojourner, you’ve come to journey’s end.
Sometimes he’d drink his coffee from a Mason jar,
And on his back was an old tote sack and a cheap guitar.
From Portland to El Paso, Bismark to Birmingham,
He spent his time on simple rhyme for those who gave a damn.
Sojourner, rest your head,
You don’t have to sing tonight for supper and a bed.
So tell those angels where you’ve been,
Old Sojourner, you’ve come to journey’s end.
We’d talk of ships and railroads in the age of steam,
Of valor and vainglory, of cabbages and kings.
He never wanted pity, never once complained,
Some men live for riches, and some to entertain.
Sojourner, rest your head,
You don’t have to sing tonight for supper and a bed.
So tell those angels where you’ve been,
Old Sojourner, you’ve come to journey’s end.
