By Decree Of Th' Viscount

I hereby post my newish song "An Easy Winter" for your free downloading pleasure. Because I love you and want you to have some nice free jangle. Dammit, don't we all deserve that?

And because Al said.

Um, "An Easy Winter". What's interesting about this? Oh- the drums were cannibalized from a primo take of a cover of "Learn To Fly" by th' Foos. I cut them up to fit this song and it worked out better than I would have thought. These drums were laid down by a guy named Dave Barrett who I've played with quite a bit around here and who is quite good. He's something of a Keith Moon; his great tone comes from beating the shit out of his drums the way you're supposed to and that makes casuals hard for him. You need Freddy from the Hot Fire band for that; he does th' whisper backbeat. It's just different schools. I have use for both of them.

Now, Dave's got an old friend who is an acolyte of producer/engineer Jack Douglas who you of course know engineered Imagine and Who's Next? and produced all the '70's Aerosmith albums and Double Fantasy. And so he's doing an album for Jack Douglas that I've been hired to play bass for. We'll see, you know? It's the music biz. Th' remuneration would be nice. I give it 60-65%. 60%. Of actually happening.

Fucking Soulfinger. I mean music biz. The fucking shit I've had on the line. The stuff that was supposed to happen THE NEXT GOD DAMN DAY. The way the STARS were about to ALIGN and DIDN'T OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

It's like a stone in my polesmoking egg foo young. Dammit. DAMMIT. Like a fireant in my polesmoking crack. Like a tear that hangs inside my polesmoking soul forever.

An Easy Winter
Copyright 2005 Bobby Lightfoot/Boatsongs BMI/all rights reserved

Take your hat from the hook by the doorway
This old world she won't wait for you now

And in time it will find its own meaning
But for now take that coat from the wall...

I recall how you tore me to pieces
That was small but I paid you in kind

And I cried through that god damned December
With the words that you said
On my mind...

And I'm praying for an easy winter
The kind you have when you're just 25

An easy winter
Because I can't stay
No, I can't stay inside...

I will float like a mist on the water
To a place where I'm kissed by the sun

And your light will no longer suffuse me
But for now there's the door
That's the one...

And I'm praying for an easy winter
The kind you have when you're just 25

An easy winter...
Because I can't stay...
No, I can't stay...
No, I can't stay...


Th' Soulfinger Diaries: 2.20-2.26 '06

Miles and miles. Some stages. Some tequila. Driving snow, freezing cold. Cramped band rooms. Ace McClintock mumbling and pacing at 5 A.M. Ace McClintock pushing Levy Pontchartrain over a coffee table. Levy shoving Ace onto me. Fuck off. My voice goes on Saturday. Not good.

We are joined by a horn section on Thursday in Essex CT. Soulfinger New 'n' Improved. The shape of things to come.

Somewhere amidst all the glamour we do this. I'm using the straight stand to good effect now. I like the straight stand. Wish I was in better voice for this but I do a yoemanlike job with what I've got. All I need is some sleep at night, man. Is that too much to ask? A lot of water and some sleep. God damn Soulfinger.

God damn Soulfinger. Why is it always so cold and dark? Oh, man it's been fucking cold. Why is it always night? God damn Soulfinger. Well, it's Soulfinger or a cubicle, my friend. Make your fuckin' choice. Lifes rich pageant, man. Soulfinger or a cubicle. That's what th' Enlightenment got us, baby. I can choose from eighty fucking deodorants but as far as life choices I've got Soulfinger or a cubicle. And you know what?

That's one more choice than a lot of folks have. Smart folks. You know what that means? It means that even if I were smarter it would still just be Soulfinger or a cubicle. Sweet fucking Christmas have we blown it. Truly we have woven it in a skeen of crapulescence. In the universe we shine like a beacon of despair, and all the other beings shun us like a chick with a hairy mole. A hairy, twitching execrescence. A repugnant, weeping boil. Every now and then some aliens ignore their fuckin' GPS and they wind up in our galaxy and they're like, "fuck, this is that Earth galaxy with those despressing fuckers." And they split for Craputon IX where you can have an orgasm for a year because time is all mental and then you grow backwards like goddamn Merlinnnn. And your dingler shrinks and becomes smooth which I, for one, would find disquieting.

Man, I've had a lot of time to think about this. I know it's bordering on lunacy to be someone who puts "singer" under Occupation but hey, I'm fucking old as dirt and I'm still walkin' the goddamn planet with a full belly and a sparkle in my tanned, athletic eye. I don't think it's more insaner than any other calling, I really don't. People who are stupider than me are doing it every day. What the fuck, anyway? You've got the one life to check some shit out, last I checked. Movin', Doin' it, you know? All respects to Baby Jeekers. And James Brown.

You see how I dichotomize the world into people who are smarter than me and people who are stupider than me? I wonder where I am on the universal graph. Probably down there next to parameceum. Reckon I could do worse. I could be like those Christing Black-Eyed Peas. Fuckers.

I do want this cruddy winter to end. Fucking dark, cold shite. A lightless tunnel. I just want to have some fun. I just want some god damn grain alcherhol and a swimmin' hole. With a Phillipino band doing Springsteen songs. Like that time in Frankfurt.

I choose Soulfinger all th' polesmoking same. God damn Soulfinger.

Good song, huh?


Bobby Lightfoot's Stagecraft 101 #3

It's always a good idea to bring your own stage microphone if it's going up your ass.

Th' Orchestra Of Sweet Regret: One Fuckin' Year Old.

Let's draw straws for who gets to pass out th' poles.

And who gets to smoke them.

Thanks to everyone from all of us here at Th' Orchestra. It has certainly been one of the most fucked-up years in recent memory, hasn't it? No 1979, this. Nope. But not a 1939 either. So there's that.

At least in '39 they didn't have th' Black Eyed Peas. Jesus would I love to Abu Gahraib those fuckers. Dogs, enforced wanking, blindfolds. The whole dirksmirking nine. I'd like to Linndee Ingland those cock-os. I'd RATHER fucking starve to death in Birkenau than have to share the planet with the likes a them.

Sal Th' Feist says she wishes she could drop a steaming coiler on all your carpets out there for orching with Th' Stickestra.

A steaming coiler. You know, when you think about it, a steaming coiler is sort of the dark correlate of that perfect, delicious swirl on th' top of the Kool Whip.

A doppleganger.