Friends Around the Campfire on Facebook - Stuck Home Syndrome EP now Available!

Good day - - - I know I've been harassing you to become a fan of The Manna Tease on the facebooks. But in the meantime (before we have more proper recordings) I've put up our last project, Friends Around the Campfire's Stuck Home Syndrome, homemade recordings from 2009-10, on its own facebook page. The EP version of Stuck Home Syndrome (expurgating the covers copyrighted elsewheres) is now FOR SALE for a handsome & affordable price of $5.99, cheaper than a sixpack of beer. The reverbnation band page provides a way to sell it directly thru the facebook fan page, nifty technology. Here are the songs thru embedded in this blog, followed by the store.

Gospel Cloud Train

Did you watch the whole thing?

Song: Gospel Train (Special 2009 "Red Hook" Version)

Originally, this song was the titular track from my homemade album "Gospel Train". I'm now re-recording it with my electric ukulele & synthesizers for my on-going Friends Around the Campfire Special Electric Ukulele Summer Covers EP - you better believe I'm still working on my summer project. Also, my covers album has broadened to allow me to cover my own songs. The 2006 recording of "Gospel Train" was once posted with the lyrics here.
Today's recording we refer to as the "Red Hook" version, for obvious reasons.


If you require to download this mp3, the album Stuck Home Syndrome available here! Friends around the Campfire on facebooks here!

Celebrity Canto

Let’s take a walk thru history with an American icon.

Sure! He collects rare shards of colored glass from Turkey & Italy,

And he’s written a lot of books, but who has found time to read his last one?

Now he pauses on the Piazza, but there he goes, he runs like a century.

He ascends a mountain of fine light, it’s all been done before in particles.

Historians will disagree about whether he was depressed at this time or pretty happy.

Meanwhile, he’s already thinking about a poem he’ll write about this walk of dangling participles.

He has a brief adventure involving batrachian nepotism & a gutterful of shit.

Compared to the trials of Hercules he admits that he is no Hercules.

The mainstream media licks its lips thinking about every step of it.

He considers this when he considers every step he takes.

Then, losing himself, he does a gay little dance & slips into a gooey pit.

The media quickly sidetracks & reports that his mother died in those earthquakes.

There is an eruption of sympathy & he finds time to masturbate to an old John Ford movie.

Hark! thumps, claps, deafening huzzas! The gospel trombone & his mother awakes.

Scholars think that his imminent divorce was preoccupying his psyche,

But I know & you know that he was always focused on his public characterization.

He knows he looks good in that suede suit, but it’s out of style by the time he gets to the Louvre.

His wife actually was just raising a big stink about House-Elf Emancipation.

He was trying to bide his time by walking around the block again,

But the mainstream media realized they could sell more papers by popular music democratization.

The Chancellor of Germany sent her condolences, but sent it at the wrong time on the wrong train,

A small press illegally publishes his letters to his mistress, & he sues them into bankruptcy:

They were just being opportunistic, but no need to explain.

His wife leaves him like a free radio blitzkrieg, but her breasts have gotten flopsy.

Now his mistress is in every magazine, but he loses her & finds ten more corseted supermodels.

He converts to Mormonism! He jumps up & down in J. Edgar Hoover’s stilettos for all the world to see.

The Celebrity His Aria: I’ll condemn you all to the Ninth Circle, every last one of you pundit assholes!

My memoirs will be impenetrable, I’ll admit to raping half of the penitentiary!

How many volumes can even my most devoted enthusiast stomach? Remember the earlier puddles?

But it’s all given me some space to breathe. My ex-wife’s face was the crime of the century.

Your televisions are all pointed North. The penguins are finally safe from your scrutiny.

The British National Dish may be curry, but mine has gone home in a flurry.

House Arrest! There have been worse fates for Saloth Sar & the late Sheriff’s Deputy.

I can finally database my shard collection, & the historians can rot in my impunity.

Music Review: James Welsch at the Starry Plough, plus two songs lyrics

Last night I sang a solo set as "Featured Act" at the Starry Plough Open Mic. This is a classy establishment on Shattuck just three blocks from my apartment in Berkeley. It was a mellow evening, which was perfect because sometimes I've felt like I was shouting over boisterous carousing. I have a few supporters & one erstwhile promoter. My friends from the Stanford Sierra Conference Center, Ashley Elliott & Seth Peterson, both played after me. Also, The Girl George, who is the heart mother of Tuesday Evenings, who sings the same four songs before the feature every time, to the rocking-out of the elusive Guy Michelle on guitar or autoharp. I have been singing some sloshed back-up for her some times recently. One of her verses to "The Time They Are A-Changin'" is this:

That motherfucker Bush he dragged us to war,
This whole administration is rotten to the core,
He stole the election & for an encore,
Flushed the 'conomy down the toilet.
Something Something Something Something
For the times, they are a changin'.

The music always dramatically stops when she sings the line about the "'conomy". Also, again later when she shouts the line "Come on! you hippies! Whatcha goin' to do!?" The point of the song (if you didn't get it) is an old hippie yelling at the young generation of Berkeley, look at the situation we're in this decade, what are you doing about it, & she's angry. I repeat, she has sung this song (& two others, plus a couple others that rotate) every week since I started going there nine months ago. Surely a statement about the nature of time(s) if there ever was one.

For historians to scrutinize, here's my set list from last night:

The Waters of Babylon (trad.)
I'm goin' to see my Lord
Gospel Train
Straightway from the Holy Land
The Violin (D. Yazbek)
Father Drank Himself to Death
The Staff in the Hand
Father Drank Himself to Death (Snake Handler Version)

Hopefully this won't be the peak highpoint of these my "singer-songwriter" years. This morning my inbox was peopled with apologies for missing my set. Who knows? Soon I may return to the type of music I was schooled in, so you player-haters better come to some of my shows before they dissipate into nostalgia for the golden years. Ah, didn't T.S. Eliot write something about knowing that the distant panorama is "all being rolled away"?

I don't think I've ever written down the lyrics to "Father Drank Himself to Death" or "The Staff in the Hand", so I'll end this posting with those.

Father Drank Himself to Death (2004-5)

Father drank himself to death.
Shattered bottle broke his breath.
Once we visited the aquarium,
But we lived beside the sea.
Father drank himself to death,
Why did he love that dirty whore?

I wrote a song about the errors of a parent,
What all the neighbors will suppose is in a family.
For food & drink will I inherit as heir apparent.
For alcoholism runs in a family just like noses run in a family.

Eighteen feet are in to fathom,
Father never was that deep,
But the ce-ments for the weight, dear--,
(If you know what I mean)--,
When you live beside the sea.
Father drank himself to death,
Why did he love that dirty whore?

Sing me a song about, &c.

Father drank himself to death.
Shattered bottle broke his breath.
Father drank himself to death,
Why did he love that dirty whore?

The word "cement" is meant to be pronounced like Louis Armstrong does in "Mack the Knife." It turns out "two fathom" is only twelve feet, but I've always sung "Eighteen feet are in to fathom" - perhaps the bad math will one day be interpreted symbolically (like maybe he was sinking deeper than he calculated.)



The "Snake Handler Version", faster with different chords & a different melody, has essentially the same lyrics, but the third verse goes:

Once we visited the aquarium,
But we lived beside the sea.
Father claimed he was a Univeralist Unitarian,
But he seemed like a fucking Snake Handler to me.

UPDATE! New recordings of "Father Drank Himself to Death" - here.

The Staff in the Hand (2005)
(Most of the lyrics are from Isaiah Ch. 10)

I will abuse you, wall'd in leaden gyves, some of these days.
The staff in the hand of the Assyrian army is the rod of mine indignation.
You want me to choose you, but you've trampled my vineyards night & day.
The staff in the hand of the Assyrian army is the rod of mine indignation.

Shall I not,
As I have done unto Samaria & her idols,
So do to
Je-ru-sa-lem, & her idols.
Therefore it shall come to pass
That when the Lord hath performed
His whole work
Upon Mount Zion
And on Jerusalem,
I will punish the fruit of the stout heart of the King of Assyria,
And the glory of his high looks.

Shall the ax boast itself against him that heweth therewith,
As if the bombs descending thru clouds unfolding lift themselves against them that's dropping.
Or shall the saw magnify itself against him that shaketh it?
Or if the plagues recoiling back to the fatherland left this bard to reconsider.

Shall I not,
As I have done unto Samaria & her idols,
So do to
Je-ru-sa-lem, & her idols.
Therefore it shall come to pass
That when the Lord hath performed
His whole work
Upon Mount Zion
And on Jerusalem,
I will punish the fruit of the stout heart of the King of Assyria,
And the glory of his high looks.

Bulletin: Show To-Night! Tuesday Night! Exciting Gospel Train Music!

From:	S. Sandrigon
Date:	Mar 27, 2007 10:29 AM
Subject	Show To-night Tuesday Night! Revolutionary GospelTrain Music
Body:	Friends, Proselytes, &c. I will be playing the featured act at Berkeley's own Starry Plough (formerly the "Top Hat") Pub To-Night! Tuesday Night! 3101 Shattuck Ave at Woolsey! The featured acts at this fine open mic are preceded by the infamous Girl George & usually start at about 9:30ish. I will be playing my own gospel & drinking songs, from my exciting Gospel Train Album, released now on Vanity Press. Hope to see you, Sincerely, James Welsch A.k.a S. Sandrigon, Prophetic Poet & American National Bard

E-mails: New Years Blogolutions

Date:	Mon, 25 Dec 2006 13:44:42 -0800 (PST)
From:	"James Welsch" <______@yahoo.com>
Subject:	Fucking
To:	"Samuel Tear Amidon" <_______@gmail.com>

Dear Sam,

Hey, I was able to get that "I wish" movie onto my fancy new video iPod (xmas present from dad) using a program called "Jodix Free iPod Video Converter". Then we hooked it up to my parents new humungous television set (they're all the rage with the consumer set), & got your face ten feet wide. My mother didn't like what you were doing with lips. It's the TWENTY FIRST CENTURY!

Anyway, I was writing to suggest that you convert your movies to .m4a & post them on your website in that format also, so people can put them on iPods. All your fans that is, like Matthew Fucking Barney & The Gay-Emo Boys & the Fucking Cockassaroos.

Where's your manners! Merry Christmas!

When's Sam Amidon Live in Berkeley? You should come play the Starry Plough. My brother told me he puts your Tears for Fears song on his mixes. He lives in a bus now. You're big with the bus set. You're also TEN FEET WIDE on my parents' TV.

Peace on Earth,

James

Date:	Mon, 1 Jan 2007 23:19:46 -0500
From:	"Sam Amidon"
To:	"James Welsch"
Subject:	Re: Fucking

yo yo

marry christmas. i am in vermont. i am hung over from new years eve.
i mean not so much any more but i was today. new years eve was about
welcoming in 2007. hmmm... today has been about being hungover in
2007. thank you for expanding my video into the television medium. i
am watching a lame indie movie called down in the valley. before that
i was watching an beautiful hollywood film called dead man's chest.
that was good. i'm sick of stupid shit, and flakey stuff, and i'm not
sure what is going to happen this year yet. what do you think? but on
the good side of things marian gave me an old, hardcover, unabridged
copy of gibbon's decline and fall of the roman empire. that is
worthwile.

sam

Date:	Sun, 7 Jan 2007 10:45:11 -0500
From:	"Sam Amidon" <___________@gmail.com>
To:	"James Welsch" <________@yahoo.com>
Subject:	Re: Ahab's apostles
CC:	"James Quill" <___________@yahoo.com>

yeah quill!!! good man rock i'm lame because i didn't go this year. but i will next year. in the meantime...

my new years resolutions.
by sam.

-sleep more
-talk more
-read more new yorker articles

my new reading scheme.
by sam

on the subway:
the short novels of leo tolstoy

on the weekends:
the decline and fall of the roman empire, by gibbon, in six volumes.

going to bed:
anna karenina

over breakfast: war and peace

Date:	Sun, 7 Jan 2007 11:58:57 -0800 (PST)
From:	"James Welsch" <______@yahoo.com>
Subject:	My Reading Scheme,
To:	"Sam Amidon" <__________@gmail.com>

Dear Sam,

Ah! What readers we are! La!

Your reading plans are impossible. Just one of those would be hard.

I wrote to James Quill that I was at the point in Pynchon's Mason & Dixon where the french chef is being haunted by a robotic duck who may or may not be slowly turning into either an angel or a planet. & wrote back & said he was at the exact same point. (We had never mentioned that book to each other, never mentioned any plans to read it...)

Some day I'll start reading Russian novels. I'm still paranoid that I'm fabulously behind on great American literature. Mason & Dixon is amazing. Like, yesterday in a coffee shop, I read this chapter where Dixon (the astronomer/surveryor charting out the Mason-Dixon line in the 1760s) stumbles into a rustick tavern in the woods inn Pennsylvania, & the locals launch into a bizarre discussion of the gnostic gospels & how the Mason-Dixon line is like a line of Hebrew Scripure, & how this monster ("Golem") Indian spirit in the woods is animated by Jesus & can be summoned by great poetry "somewhat as ye may summon a Star with a Telescope".

Peace On Earth!
Purity Of Essence!

James

Date:	Wed, 3 Jan 2007 20:45:07 -0800 (PST)
From:	"James Welsch"
Subject:	"Garden of Pleasure" paging the Vibe Master
To:	<________@gmail.com>

Dear Dan "Communism" Piper.

Well, my mother informed me over Christmas that since moving to Berkeley (three months ago!) I have become "too liberal." It was in response to me telling her the dairy industry is a slave trade. Can't say I'm a communist, but, if you have $230, I suggest you drag your butt to Lincoln Center in New York & watch all three of Tom Stoppard's trilogy "The Coast of Utopia." By February, there should be some 8-hour marathons going on.

I tried to call you a bit ago, to ask what was going on in Israel - but I've been listening to Amy Goodman, & I think I'm more up to date. I may just hide for a few years. Speaking of which, January 25th, 2009, Edinburgh / Ayreshire! That'll be several things: James Quill's 27th Birthday, Robert Burns's 250th birthday (hence the Scottish location), & 5 days after Bush leaves office (at the latest), so by default a several-week all-world party.

MySpace friends! I sent you a request for my music page. I have a new Gospel Album, Gospel Train.

New! Year!
James

Gospel Train on YouTube

Two Songs Lyrics, also commentary

Gospel Train

When my corduroy suit's turned to ashes,

And my socks are immersed in the sea,

Then that gospel train's goin' to take me,

To a land where the tailors are free.

When the asphalt is bent and decaying,

And the bridges are sunk in the tide,

Then that gospel train's goin' to take me,

To a land where the bike lanes are wide.

When my last lentil bin is depleted,

And my stomach distends with the gasses,

Then that gospel train's goin' to meet me,

And we'll go where one loaf feeds the masses.

When the soles in my shoes are a memory,

And the sidewalk is shriveled and forgotten,

Then that gospel train's goin' to take me

Where highways are made out of cotton.

When my krummhorn is covered with leaches,

And my hands have been sold to the hounds,

Then that gospel train's goin' to bring me

Where galactic polyphony resounds.

So farewell you unrefined sinners,

I'm never to see you again,

I've packed up my watch and my peace pipe,

And I'm boarding that old gospel train.

I'm goin' to see my Lord

Not this life I'm wasting,

I'm goin' to see my Lord.

Not many men have managed it,

But I'm goin' to see my Lord.

I'm stranded in mortality until the break of doom.

Long time the soil's been barren,

But I'm goin' to see my Lord.

A holy land will breathe again,

I'm goin' to see my Lord.

The temple has been crowded, but I'm goin' to make some room.

I tried to build a library,

Now I'm goin' to see my Lord.

The words were almost meaningless,

So I'm goin' to see my Lord.

I'm creepin', I'm climbin' back to the savior's womb.

I tried to write a symphony,

Now I'm goin' to see my Lord.

The orchestra was busy,

So I'm goin' to see my Lord.

Announce to all the nations that I know the holy word.

Someone's sneakin' round the corner,

I'm goin' to see my Lord.

For the showboat was a failure,

So I'm goin' to see my Lord.

At the ending of their journey the assembly was one bird.

I tried to hit a baseball,

Now I'm goin' to see my Lord.

But the ball grew ever larger,

So I'm goin' to see my Lord.

He knows that I've been drinking but I'll never be deterred.

She was as black as her habit,

I'm goin' to see my Lord.

And she said she was the carpenter,

I'm goin' to see my Lord.

I dried her tears & started sweepin' up that quantity of sand.

Now thru the cave it echoes,

That I'm goin' to see my Lord.

O loose your chains, O turn around,

And go to see your Lord.

I used to be a puppet, but I'm free from that dark hand.

I swam with jealous dolphins,

Now I'm goin' to see my Lord.

I'm dryin' off that milky sea,

And goin' to see my Lord.

The sailors are all ready, kneel & kiss that promised land!

I tried to climb the theater,

Now I'm goin' to see my Lord.

But the pork made her so heavy,

So I'm goin' to see my Lord.

I got weighed down with glory with that mask stuck to my forehead.

O my weary feet have wandered,

But I'm goin' to see my Lord.

Please annoint my soles with oils,

O I want to see my Lord.

Verdant thunders ever rollin', rainin' crowds of fiends abhorrèd.

With the quest & goal united,

I'm goin' to see my Lord.

I've thrown both shoes from that caboose,

And I'm going to see my Lord.

And I'll sit & eat with Jesus at the right hand of the Lord!

And peace will rain like gold once did!

__________________________________________________________________

Commentary

Along with the devastation and continued governmental ineptitude of Hurricane Katrina, it is also the one year anniversary of my popular song "I'm goin' to see my Lord." I was able to record it last September in the CalArts studio, as part of an Angel Band project with Melinda Rice, but it is a simple recording of myself singing drunkenly into my computer which has won the public's heart. Indeed, it can be heard on mix CDs & at parlor gatherings around the country. I have had numerous occasions to perform it, once in a recital at a church with Mrs Bonnie Whiting Smith in New York City last January, & at a sampling of open mics & "talent hours" across Northern California. It is always met with smash adoration; in short, it is my greatest hit.

I have received many e-mails & phone calls demanding, sometimes with serious urgency, to have the meanings of certain elusive passages elucidated. I ask, did Leonard Cohen or Samuel Coleridge ever receive such pesky ingratitude? It were as if my fan's immortal salvation hinged on the clarification of the line "For the showboat was a failure / So I'm goin' to see my Lord." Such is the moral weight of correctly composing a sacred lyric. I recall my then-roommate James Eliot Quill - while playing "Civilization III" & drinking my wine - ridiculing me for the line "But the pork made her so heavy," commenting that juxtaposing utter nonsense with profundity can undermine the latter. I retorted that it can also inspire an informed understanding of the nonsense, but I did not consider that line to be nonsense, so I went and locked up my boxed wine from inspiring any further illuminations.

For the most part, I consider the lyrics to be mostly matter-of-fact, hiding few unattainable allusions. Also, I am too aware of the dangers of explaining one's own poetry in one's lifetime. It runs the risk of being forever chained to the text in a footnote, regardless of how helpful the author's explanation actually is. T.S. Eliot may have written his own useless endnotes. St. John of the Cross wrote sixty-page commentaries on his own six stanza poems. With the exception of what I am doing now, I refuse to engage in such ridiculousness. (I am also not a Christian-existentialist.) If one approaches a line like my 'pork' line without additional explanation, think of the freedom the listener has to generate or to ignore his own imaginative interpretations. One gets very nervous at press conferences, & an artist or politician will say all manner of unfitting things. It's been a year since I first sketched those lyrics, & if I were to say now that the 'pork' line was about the unhealthy Orson-Wellesian gluttony of the entertainment industry, and my subsequent abjuration of that art for more ascetic pursuits, I cannot ever be sure to what extent how I read it now corresponds to what I was or wasn't thinking then. Orson Welles was somewhere in my collective imagination, linked in a vast series of associations with my understanding of what "theater" is. Perhaps I called up his image, but I don't think so. Still, if Terry Gross were asking me about that line, I would probably mention his name. Was Orson Welles Jewish, did he even eat pork? Perhaps his obesity was wholly swineless. If something of that nature was ever attached in a footnote to that line, a graduate student writing his thesis on my lyrics might make a note that that is what the line means, & never question the issue again.

The other song "Gospel Train" is brand new. It was written as a sequel, written at the Webb Block, the site of Part Two of my Weblog, which soon will house the fanciest high speed wireless internets to plug into my slow old computers. The Webb Block is on the corner of a busy intersection, sirens & rush hours & the like. Like the first song, "Gospel Train" has two locals: where I'm leaving & where I'm going. I just noticed that both the dystopia & the paradise in "Gospel Train" are car-free. In the dystopia, cars can no longer drive on decaying asphalt & sunken bridges; in the paradise, the highways are cotton & the bike lanes are wide. And of course the idea of the gospel train itself is both retro and futuristic, but currently out of favor. Sustainable energies & a healthier transportation have been much discussed recently by scientists, journalists & politicians. Culture critics point out the societal desolation caused by sprawl. They even comment that art & business suffer because of the useless hours spent in a car commute, when any other vessel of conveyance leaves the hands & eyes free. But where are the theological-poetical voices? Don't the Christians think the soul & earth is suffering from a civilization built with freeways? Don't the Mormons question the raping of their holy land? Don't musicians miss quieter streets? Mystics & poets have a freedom that politicians & journalists tied to pragmatism do not. Even Bob Dylan sang eloquenty in the dialects of dystopias & utopias, a tradition as old as language. Has the Bush-era left us with such a fear of idealism, that when we need it most to radically alter the way a society moves, all we can do is limit Californian industry emisions 25% by 2010, & sing songs about sex?

E-mail to Samuel Tear Amidon

Date: Wed, 30 Aug 2006 17:15:14 -0700 (PDT)
From: "James Welsch" <______@yahoo.com>
Subject: Farting
To: "Samuel Tear Amidon" <________@gmail.com>

Dear Sam,

You know, I just found out, Jacob Danziger lives two blocks away from me. I haven't seen him yet, tho. Why don't you go to Mills also?

My parents' only comment about American Wake (which I put at the top of their netflix queue) was: "Thomas really has terrible posture!"

I liked it, watching it again. I think it's a subtle movie about modern multiculturalism. It's kind of ironic that the movie you're in is kind of the opposite from the type of movie I bet you daydream about being in.

Politics: What the fuck is going on?
Art: So last century.
Music: I like Brad Mehldau's newest album. I'm trying to listen to more jazz. That would be easier if it wasn't so boring.
Living in Berkeley: do you realize how much more beautiful & laid-back this city is, compared to cold ugly unhappy New York? Boy, you all made shitty decisions there.
Living in New York: Did you hear about the Manatee sighting?
Old College Days: Our Freshman friends returned this week, they're all adult seniors now.
Daisy Press: I had a dream that she lived above me, & I was mad at her that she stomped around at five in the morning in high heels. In reality, it was Gloria, our upstairs neighbor's catsitter.
Our new apartment: It's sweet - it's huge, in a 1905 building, above an antique store. Also, it's not in Brooklyn.
Radio: My mother bought me an hour's radio time as a guest DJ. I think I'm just going to read "The Great Gatsby" for an hour. Have you heard Bob Dylan's show?
iPods: Do you know anyone whose iPod has not broken? Why aren't they better quality?
Movies: I didn't really care for "Metropolitan". You should decide whether you like a film after you've seen it. I'm excited about "Marie Antoinette." Whatshisname is playing Louix XVI.
Singer/Songwriter: I just wrote a song called "Gospel Train." It's a sequel to my song "I'm going to see my Lord." I play at an open mic night every Tuesday, at the Starry Plough. Also, I've been Sacred Harping every monday.
Friendship: I can't believe you couldn't make time to see me when I was in New York for a whole fucking month! You fuckface!
Life: My mother's been telling me about fate. I believe that patience and dedication brings what you want to you. Also, your thoughts have power - when you think something enough, often it comes to pass. Just like in Lolita!
Death: We live in the first culture where obesity is a sign of poverty. What the fuck is going on?

Signed,
James