Original Song #16

As a testament to how things change, this song was written years before I met the woman I would later make my wife...

Inveigled

You say it's been going like this too long
Don't want to see it go all wrong
Strings lying together, that's okay
Some knots get tied anyway

It ain't broke so why fix it?
I don't believe that it's illicit
And you say we should make it legal
Why do I feel so inveigled?

Your parents grow giddier by the day
They're marking off their Saturdays
The pressure's mounting, I might cave in
Pretty soon they'll be looking for grandkids

It ain't broke so why fix it?
I don't believe that it's illicit
And you say we should make a change
It's just an addition of names
But I know half the time it don't take
Once you cut that wedding cake
I suppose we could "make it legal"
Why do I feel so inveigled?

You've got to promise not to alter anything
If you want to see me at the altar with a ring

- 30 -

(Mostly) Original Song #15

Never Leaving Las Vegas

(italicized: lifted from Mike Figgis's adapted screenplay)

Just bought a pack of smokes
It was my first one after the last one
I was ever going to buy
Til my last breath

I'll sit around all night
Watching Nicolas Cage say:
"We could get Prime Rib
They've got it on sale for two-ninety-nine
...I love that dress"

I'm never leaving Las Vegas
Digressing til I regress
I'm never leaving Las Vegas

Between the one-hundred-and-one-proof breath
And the occasional drool
Some interesting words fall
Out of your mouth

You always seem so simple
You always become so difficult
You're on a downward spiral
Chasing a spinning room

I'm never leaving Las Vegas
Digressing til I regress
I'm never leaving Las Vegas

Killing myself as a way to drink
Killing myself as a way to smoke
Killing myself as a way to give
Killing myself as a way to live

Take your pick
Of vices and devices
Smooth your snout, smooth it over
Gin and tonic
Vodka vomit
Smooth as silk

I'm a prickly pear

I'm never leaving Las Vegas
Digressing til I regress
I'm never leaving Las Vegas
I'm never leaving
Never leaving
Never never never never never...

- 30 -

Original Song #14

The Greater Sloshed

A love this good, this misunderstood
Seems your friends all know, what the hell do they know?
When the great unwashed dis the greater sloshed
What would happen, should they happen?

They say you fight a lot, you’re so overwrought
But something makes you go, something I don’t know
‘Cause again you’re here, and it’s pretty clear
They don’t know you like you know you

He’s a piece of work, he’s the king of jerks
He says he’ll be there, but he’s god-knows where
Again she’s here and it’s pretty clear
She needs you; she believes in you

Well she’s got him in tow and he know it shows
But his happy-go-lucky’s back from happy-go-fucky
Again he’s here and it’s pretty clear
He needs you; he believes in you

Well if you can come up with a better definition
Of what love should be, then I’ll send you out fishing
There’s never going to be another premiere edition
Seems that love exists of its own volition

We don’t know you like you know you
We don’t know you like you know you

A love this good, this misunderstood
Seems your friends all know, what the hell do they know?
When the great unwashed dis the greater sloshed
Look what happens, seems you’ve happened

Don’t listen to the great unwashed
They don’t know about the greater sloshed
Don’t listen to the great unwashed
They don’t know about the greater sloshed

- 30 -

Original Song #13 - We Have Our Voices

We Have Our Voices

You own the presses
You own the airwaves
You own the publishing rights
We have our voices

You own the lawyers
You own the pollsters
You own their questions
We have our voices

You have opinions
And you can share them
But it’s not convincing
When you enforce them

You have the unions
Right where you want them
Just lay them off now
And then contract them

Ideas may get bought and sold
You can try to suppress them
But they still take hold

You own our pensions
Dictate our choices
Of politicians
We have our voices

You’ve got the airlines
You’ve got the phone lines
You’ve got the pipelines
We have our voices

You own the mountains
You own the oceans
You own the buildings
We have our voices

You can have the earth
You can take the sun
You can claim the stars
But you won’t have won

We have our voices
We have our voices
We have our voices
We have our voices
We have our voices
We have our voices
We have our voices
We have our voices
We have our voices
We have our voices
We...

- 30 -

Original Song #12

Buried

How many times can you stand to fall over
How many drinks will kill this sober
Spending all your time
Losing video games

How many days must you sit by that window
Watching your dreams get covered up in snow
At least the seasons
Have the courtesy to change

You could’ve been something
You could still be something now
Only thing you haven’t beaten
Is that crippling self-doubt

You’ve got to help yourself out

How many days do you read your newspaper
Watch the TV for Dini and Oprah
Media placebos for your agoraphobia

How many times can you stand to fall over
How little changes as you grow older
Maybe do some chores
Check up on the sports scores

You’ve got friends you know
Maybe even give you a hand
Watching from the sidelines
This gem buried in quicksand

I do and don’t understand

- 30 -

Original Song #11

Missing You

Hey there, how’re you doing?
I’m doing all right, I guess
I see you’re doing something different with your hair
You smile; you say I’m looking good
You smile like you’re a friend
Somehow I can’t stay mad at you
All the same, why do I miss you?
I’m missing you

Sometimes you don’t want to know
Sometimes that’s the way to go
Don’t think that you’ll be immune to the blows when they come
Stand up for your heroes
They may be a little tarnished
That doesn’t make them zeros
Time for a little hero varnish
And I’m missing you

First we’ll go and get some coffee
Then we’ll do a little window shopping
Paint the town red with snooker balls
Call one friend, then call them all
Playing poker with Boreales
Pictionary with brown cows
Put another log on the fire
But the wet wood dampens the desire

I’m busy discarding my crutches
I know it doesn’t sound like much, but
I’ve got to get better somehow before I buckle
And I quit smoking, and I quit drinking
But I quit quitting smoking, and I quit quitting drinking, too
Can’t quit missing you

- 30 -

Original Song #10

Brain Candy

Found myself in a pit
I was on my feet but not too steady
Looking down, the ground was colourless
Then when I looked up
I found grey sky, nothing but grey sky
Til I caught your mind’s eye, and I said:

I want a little brain candy
I’m only scratching the surface of your deep
If you can’t hold your breathe that long,
Then what’s the point of breathing in at all?

And you’re sitting there
You’re asking me questions, we’re sharing some questions
But the answers don't always appear
Then when I look in your eyes,
Eyes I could curl right up and fall asleep in
That’s when I realize it’s fun feeling your thoughts up

I want a little brain candy...

And I know, I know, I know
There’s always hope in a new day, there’s always a new song
Writing’s a breeze and mine is breezey.

I want a little brain candy...

Jump in and snorkel up to me
Jump in and snorkel up to me
I want a little brain candy
I need a little brain candy

- 30 -

Original Song #9

Cathie from Canada has a post up commemorating the 30th anniversary of the SS Edmund Fitzgerald tragedy. It seems like as good a time as any to put this song up here. I was inspired by the finding of an historian that Henry Hudson may have actually made it all the way back to his base on the island of Spitsbergen after his Discovery crew mutinied, taking the ship all the way home to England without its Captain.

It is surmised that Hudson accomplished this feat by expertly using the southwestern winds of the Atlantic to get back. But since this technique would've forced him to tack north, and slowly, he eventually found himself stranded on Spitsbergen for the oncoming winter. This theory was borne from the finding of another historian's journal indicating a headstone had been spotted on Spitsbergen early in the 20th Century with Hudson's name on it. (Although I can't find a link to the story about this, I have a clipping I kept from the Montreal Gazette about it.) I imagine him here as a proud man, disgusted and enraged at his crew for not having the courage to keep pushing for the mythical Northwest Passage he sought.

Spitsbergen

With my son and seven men, I’ve been booted off my ship
Set adrift in a tiny skiff, barely fit for seafare
We've precious few provisions; just the North Star to guide us
We'll be at the mercy of the winds to get us out of here

We were dumped out in the bay; the one that bears my name
By a filthy band of thugs, all greedy for my claim
But they won’t get back home safely, back to England fair
Without Henry Hudson’s prowess, they haven’t got a prayer

For I am Henry Hudson and I swear we’ll make Spitsbergen
I'd get us back to England but we only have two sails
Those filthy mutineers’ll surely starve at sea without me
As I steer us to Spitsbergen by the sou’western gales

Well we've been at sea ten days and in the air's a bitter chill
We’re all ascared of calenture as much as falling ill
But the men won’t give up hope cause they know they’re better off
Than the scum aboard Discovery, by now surely lost

For I am Henry Hudson and I swear we’ll make Spitsbergen
I'd get us back to England but we only have two sails
Those filthy mutineers’ll surely starve at sea without me
As I steer us to Spitsbergen by the sou’western gales

Rough seas!

Land ahoy!

I almost gave up hope til that day I saw the rocks
And the stone house I’d not seen in over fifty moons
We’ll make it through the winter boys, eating seals and lemmings
We’ll be back in merry England before the month of June

For I am Henry Hudson and I swore we’d make Spitsbergen
I got us as far as here, and I know I’ll get us home
Those filthy mutineers have surely starved at sea without me
As I steered us to Spitsbergen by the sou’western gales

- 30 -

Original Song #8

Drinks Too Much

Original Song #7

My first-cousin, Sandra Langworth, would've been 42 today. She and her three younger sisters all died in a house fire a couple of days after Xmas, 1971. I was two and a half at the time. I grew up wondering what their lives might've been like if they'd had a chance to experience growing up themselves. Sandra, this is your song.

Sandra

Sandra knows
What it’s like to be too tall
The girls all want you to fall
The boys never seem to call

Sandra sees
Better than you or me
She’s got a gift for make believe
And a dozen unrealized dreams

Daddy’s playing with the radio knob
Curses at the forecast of an early frost
Mummy’s cleaning up the kitchen herself
Guess it’s up to me to put the young ones to bed

Sandra sees
Mummy never gets any meat
Now Sandra always leaves half her piece
Even when she’s still hungry

Sandra dreams
Of going places she won't know
Like the coast of Mexico
Where the snakes all tickle her toes

And Daddy’s rolling more cigarettes
Smokes four in the time it takes him just to roll the rest
Mummy’s feeding all the calves herself
Guess it’s up to me to help milk the cows again

Sandra’s mad
She didn’t want to be this tall
It doesn’t mean she can keep her head
Above it all

Sandra reads
Any damn thing she can
If it’s a tragedy that’s fine
But when it’s sad she don’t cry
She won’t cry

- 30 -

Original Song #6

Stickman

Walking at a nerve-bit pace
Hands in pockets; hard-tack face
Moving with purpose
But no destination in mind

Do you believe
There’s nothing in which to believe
Go to bed with no idea
What to do should you wake up

You were born with two good ears
Born with two good eyes
Born scanning the delivery room
For someplace you could hide

Saw you sitting there at the bar
Drinking fast and smoking hard
In the only element
That you’ve ever called your own

Just another damning indictment
Should’ve seen it coming
Go to bed with no idea
What to do should you wake up

Should I die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to
Not take down

You were born with two good ears
Born with two good eyes
Born scanning the delivery room
For someplace you could hide

Stickman sitting on a branch
Scared to let the world see you

- 30 -

Original Song #5

I don't usually like to post songs back-to-back, but after reading Timmy the G's post about an 11 year-old Winnipeg girl's suicide, I just feel like singing this one at the top of my lungs so I thought I'd share.

Drained

At the Metro entrance stood a tall, trim man
Tailored dark suit and an outstretched hand
Handing out papers saying: “Jesus Loves You”
His smile shone brighter than his polished shoes
I took a long, hard look in his eye
Looking for the man inside
I couldn’t find the man beyond the sheen
Like a person replaced with a dogma machine

Chorus:
I guess I needed somebody to remind me
I’m one of the fortunate ones
And I guess that lately I’ve been fussing and
I’ve been sulking too much
And I’ve got to remind myself
No matter how much the world seems unjust
To keep my feet planted on the Metro platform

We only see each other every once in a while
Every day without you is another trial
I don’t believe in organised religion
But every time I hear your voice I get this vision
I think about moments we shared together
I’m hoping more will come if I don’t surrender to doubt
Help me out, help me out

Am I on the mend again?
Don’t need to feel this pain
I’ve got you coursing through my veins
Stay the course now; don’t leave me feeling drained

- 30 -

Original Song #4

Back Nine

The game of life
It’s a game of golf
I want to play but
I’ve got no balls, you’ve got your
Golf Shoes and your
Golf Shirt and your
Golf Cart and your
Other Golf Perks
Too bad you play it like it’s work

You’ve been playing for half a lifetime
Getting more frustrated over every drive
Now you're pushing thirty-five
Better luck
On your back nine

Well you get a caddie and you
Pay him ten bucks, and you
Treat him like shit, and you
Buy him two hot dogs
You curse and yell when you miss your shots
And you blame it on him
Cause that’s all that you’ve got
Is that what got you this far?

You’ve been playing for half a lifetime
Getting more frustrated over every drive
Now you're pushing forty-five
Better luck
On your back nine

- 30 -

Original Song #3

Slow Down

Well I’m searching for some conversation
But it doesn’t look like I’m going to find much here
Excuse me, but I think I noticed
Most of what we talk about involves sports, women, and beers

Slow down, don’t you buy another round
It’s time to leave the next one up to me
Hang on, don’t you know I’m often misunderstood
If you know what I mean

Well you sit there, and you protest: Why should you care?
But you’re still waiting for your video poker to make you a millionaire
Meanwhile, you forgot how to take a stand
But just ‘cause things aren’t in your control, doesn’t mean they’re out of hand

Slow down, don’t you sell your fleshy pounds
It’s time to think on your own and not just to please
Hang on, don’t you know there’s a dozen new Hitlers whom we’ll scoff
But we’ll die to appease

Slow down, don’t you buy another round
It’s time to leave the next one up to me
Hang on, don’t you know that history won’t bail you out
When you’re down on your knees

Well I thank you for your beer and company
But your yawning’s telling me that it’s time to leave
Just think about this for one sec: he who dies with regrets
Is he as sorry for things he did as things that he didn’t?

Slow Down

- 30 -

Original Song #2

Stoke the Fire

Caught in machinations
Beyond your power
Busy earning a living
You stoke the fire

And you wonder how they
Could let it happen
Never bother to question
How big is your picture?

Successive generations
Will be quick to damn us
Maybe they'll understand us

Recipe for murder:
Divide the horror
Give the people a scapegoat
Then point the finger

Gain complicity
Reward efficiency
Give the people procedures
They'll die to please

Perhaps the question to ask is:
Does it really matter?
Who pulled the trigger
Who filled the gas tanks
Who stoked the fires
That burn us

- 30 -

Original Song #1 (with plug)

Tattered Sleeve

Got to tell you how I can’t
Begin to tell you anything
Salty streaks upon your cheeks
I won’t pretend I don’t see them today
A matted mess, your ratty dress
You’ve given up coloring me to impress
Unapproachable, you’re a shattered soul
Impossible to console

CHORUS
I want to find a way to reach you
But you draw your shell around you
You just can’t hide your emotions
When you wear them on your tattered sleeve

I found a mussel on the beach, closed-up tight it’d washed-up heavy
I almost opened it up, but I let it fall in the muck
I couldn’t bear to see another creature died alone at sea
Now you’re standing in front of me; we’re two lost souls imperfect to a tee

Well it’s not like I don’t know you
I can read the misery between the lines on your face
Why can’t you trust me
A crying shame is no disgrace

-30-

Show plug: My three-piece band, Randboro (a lotta heart; a little talent), will be opening for mega-surfers Los Tabernacos tonight (Friday, Aug. 26) at Barfly, 4062 rue St-Laurent, corner Duluth, in Montreal. We may hit the stage as early as 9:00 p.m. or as late as 10:00. If you're in the neighbourhood, we'd sure love to see you there.

Welcome all.

Tattered Sleeve is the title of a song I wrote several years ago, about a person I knew who truly wore their emotions on their sleeve.

And those were raw emotions, and that was no silk sleeve (hence the title). The song opens with the line:

Got to tell you how I can't begin to tell you anything

But the lines I am most proud of appear later:

Found a mussel on the beach
Closed-up tight, it washed up heavy
I almost opened it up
But I let it fall in the muck
Couldn't bear to see another creature died alone at sea
Now you're standing in front of me
We're two lost souls
Imperfect to a tee

I wrote that several years ago, at a time when I had just got my BA in Journalism and Communications at Concordia University here in Montreal. At the time I was growing disgusted with mass media, which I saw as far too compromised by its privileged, corporate nature. Writing songs meanwhile, is pure and personal; and performing them live is an immediate rush for someone like me who is all about sharing ideas.

But then in June, 2003, that same press clued me in to Howard Dean's campaign and the "blog" that seemed to be fueling it. Now, I'm a Canadian who grew up admiring Pierre Elliot Trudeau for his dazzling intellect and stylish leadership, so I was no fan of W (or just about any Republican for that matter) and I was quite interested to see which of the Democrats might trash him in '04. Dean would've done nicely, but I doubt running the teensy state of Vermont is enough experience for the best pol. But that's another post.

Point being, Dean's blog suddenly opened my eyes to the fact there are a whole lot of smart, compassionate people out there on the "internets" that I learned you can have a good conversation (or at least laugh) with.

From Dean's blog, I soon found Daily Kos, and Cursor, and Atrios and Juan Cole and TPM (but I hate when he gets into his one-track-blogging routine), and my all-time fave: Whiskey Bar

Then earlier this year, I got clued-in to Cathie from Canada's blog and Voice in the Wilderness, which led to the concept that I, Scott Murray, who sometimes posts as "Scott in Montreal", an admittedly bland moniker I chose sometime last year over on the Dailykos site, should damn-well start my own blog.

So here we go. Hopefully when I look up and see Tattered Sleeve each time I post, it will remind me to be honest and open - and sputtering with raw emotion when necessary. To the memory of Joe Strummer (RIP), who never shied away from saying what he thought needed to be said screaming from the rooftops, I dedicate this site.

And as for comments, have at 'em, folks.

BTW: My band is called Randboro - more on where that name comes from another time - and we'll be playing Barfly (4062a rue St-Laurent, Montreal) this Friday, opening for local surf-lords Los Tabernacos.

-30-