GRINNERS: we'll have the squeezebox, plus Roy and his one red glove back on the WTB. We should be at full orchestra on this trip.
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If you want to learn chord changes ahead of time, here are some new songs we're planning to work up. Even better, someone could actually learn the words, which always seems to be the absolute lowest priority.
1. Ophelia, The Band.
Chords and lyrics here.
Listen to it here.
2. Goodbye's All We've Got Left to Say, Steve Earle
Lyrics here.
Chords are just D, G, A drunken power strumming.
Listen to it here.
3. Cherry Bomb, John Mellencamp.
Chords and lyrics here.
Note that most sites, including this one, say "That's whan a sport was a sport" instead of "That's when a smoke was a smoke" which is just wrong in so many ways they ought to get kicked off the internet. You will get kicked out of the RRCC if you sing it that way, we don't care what the original lyrics really were.
Listen to it here:
4. Salt of the Earth, Rolling Stones.
Roy, tune your Washtub Bass to Open E.
Chords and lyrics here.
Don't listen to it, watch it, so you'll remember to pack your foul weather gear. 40% chance of showers on Saturday.
Finally, Vernon, feel free to post the chords to some of those panty-dropper songs you're so good at and we'll see if we can't lure a few Centerville girls down from Sassafras Ridge.
Hale always claimed, and still does, that those other girls that time were solid in their intentions toward us, and that I botched it. He seems still to feel strongly about it. . . .
As I remember, we were walk-fishing in the limestone country below Granbury, ranging down the river afoot from camp at some farmer's pay picnic ground, wading the long shallow stretches in tennis shoes and climbing over the boulders beside the pools. The girls, older than we, were sitting under a cottonwood by their car with cold beer in an ice bucket; laughing, they offered us some, and Hale swilled two bottles in succession, declaring that he was an old beer drinker. I drank one, and since I was empty and hot it dizzied me, nor did I like its bitterness. The girls started a kind of banter that made me jumpy even without my understanding much of it. Hale answered with some truck-driver talk from a humburger stand we frequented, and in a while one of the girls slapped him and started wrestling with him in the sand, laughing.
"Let's fish some more, Hale," I said.
His answer was muffled but negative.
The girl with him sat up, tugging her blouse straight. She said: "You ain't nothin' but kids!"
"Agnes, you old bat," her friend said. "Fred and them'll be waitin'."
Hale was in favor of wrestling some more, but got slapped in earnest, hard, and sat back. Then they were in the car with their bucket and driving away, their laughter trailing back at us out of the window. Hale said, with surprise, that he felt terrible, and proved it by being sick. . . .
Goodbye to a River, pp. 107-08.
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