I finally released this odd thing that I did about year ago. It has trombones and accordion, and there was a lovely sculpture of a Ling Cod hanging above the pool table in the large room where it was recorded. There was also an Ocean nearby.

I have a novelty song problem.

The Words:

Well the Outlaws of Old, they were famous, they were bold.
They all obtained the famousest of fame.
But the famousest of names in the Outlaw Hall of Fame
Was the famous name of a guy by the name of Jesse James.

Now Jesse James was born on a war-torn, forlorn morn
In the abject, lonesome state of Mis-sou-ree,
Where, as might have been expected, he was adversely affected
By the awful, gruesome things that he did see.

So, like, one time, for example, they trampled on his grample,
And they tried to hang his grammle from a tree.
And if you had seen his mama that alone had been a trauma
And he prob’ly could have used some therapee.

Now from such a horrid start, he went to swillin straight Bacardi,
And whene’er he was to parties he was rude.
He gave everyone a hassle by behaving like an asshole.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

Screwed up dude. Screwed up dude.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.
He probably had rabies and he bullied little babies.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

So he joined a group of haters by the name of Quantrell’s Raiders.
They was famous mutilators in the land.
They just rode around on horses, sore abusing all their forces,
Having fun and amputating people’s hands.

Oh but when that war was over, Jesse sat down to discover
What might be the skills and assets he’d acrued.
“Of such things you’ve not an ounce, sir,”
Said the local high-school counselor,
“Jesse James, youre’ a real screwed up dude.”

Screwed up dude. Screwed up dude.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.
No, he couldn’t get a boot in, ‘cept for lootin and for shootin.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

But there was this famous writer, a professional benighter
And inciter of the feckless multitude.
He corrupted public mores with exaggerated stories
Of the glories of this sorely screwed up dude.

You see, they had this strange obession with insolent transgression
Since their late bid for secession went to seed.
They desired a concrescence of their violated essence,
Which they found in Jesse’s grim and lawless deeds.

So all the people gave him thanks when he robbed their stupid banks
And abolished all the value they’d construed.
He was a pure instantiation of social alienation,
Better known as a truly screwed up dude.

Screwed up dude. Screwed up dude.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.
Although he never did get busted, he was awful maladjusted.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

Screwed up dude. Screwed up dude.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.
He gave everyone a hassle by behaving like an asshole.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

Here’s another one of these. I tried to make it good because, like they say, “Etude? Don’t make it bad.”

All right, folks! Here’s the long awaited magnum opus of the one and only Fogline Musicians Guild, Sonoma County’s premier jingle ensemble:

My old chum Jason Gots has a podcast. He solicits words from people, writes a story around the word, sends the word to artists and musicians and asks them to make stuff too. Then he interviews someone famous that I’ve never heard of.

The word Jason sent me a few months ago was “crown shyness.” He explained that it is a thing which some trees do when they avoid touching one another at their crowns. I’ve never seen such around here. But anyway, here’s the episode of Clever Creature which features me and some friends doing “Crown Shy,” a song I wrote just for the occasion.

I’ve had some good musicians around lately, so I made this an ensemble affair. The players, then, are:
Demetra Markis – vocals
Mark Ogren – trombones (sic)
Dan Schoenfeld – button accordion

And, of course, J. Boor on mandolin, vocals, and a crash cymbal which I borrowed from my neighbor Eric.

Here’s a tune that’s only twenty-nine seconds long. It exists only to give me an opportunity to try out my new bass.

There’s also a picture of some taxidermed bunnies doing math. Have a nice day.

This song is about the 19th-Century British classicist and translator Benjamin Jowett, but mainly in the way in which spanish moss is about a branch.

Jowett’s students, allegedly, wrote a verse about him, which is useful for pronouncing his last name:

My name is Benjamin Jowett
And if it is knowledge I know it.
I teach at Balliol College,
And what I don’t know isn’t knowledge.

I’ve taken this and run with it, to see where it would go — without, I’m afraid, much regard for the old guy’s legacy. I hope he doesn’t mind.

My song includes a few true things about Jowett — he had a thing for Florence Nightingale; he was considered heretical as Anglican clergymen go. But the better part is bunkum, or the gratuitous projection of the author’s personal ennui onto the defenseless corpse of an Oxford Don. If you are doing a report on Benjamin Jowett for school, move along.

But the pronunciation of Benjamin Jowett’s last name — it must be admitted and certainly stands to reason and ought not to be the subject of rational doubt — is one of the things that a person might know. And now you know it. So there.

I’ve been cleaning my room. Here are two odd tracks found dribbling into oblivion like pebbles down a long hill of sand displaced by an excavator.

(1) “Chicken Hush,” recorded live at Big Star Bar in Houston about ten years ago. When I found this recording I did not recognize the tune; it sounds different when you aren’t playing it. I’m disoriented by the way the pickup and amplification are presenting the different ranges on the guitar; and it’s changed quite a bit since then.

(2) “First Letter to Brian Brock.” After hearing the piano album “Correspondence” by Vladimir Martynov and George Pelecis, I wanted to do something similar on guitar. So I wrote a “letter” to a guitarist friend. He still hasn’t written back.