November Greyhound Records

The last record was done in November.
This one wasn't supposed to be but it's gonna be.
I always aim to record in October and then something gets delayed.
Like every single time except once when I's taking the greyhound.

Songs are like racing dogs and they get riled up just like 'em too.
There's a certain time when they's most ready to race.
There's also a time when they's too old and too young.
I's always just racing them. Down the track.
On the tracks. Always trying to beat the other records.
My own record, sure - but mostly other records.

In my humble opinion, the best race there ever was was done in two parts.
First in New York, then with a rematch in Minnesota.
Then, in just over 50 minutes there was Blood On The Tracks.

and so those Greyhound ghosts
is all I'm gonna be racing
once again in November.

And all my money is on it.

An Indian Summer Where the Sun Also Rises in Northern Ontario

Riceboy Sleeps :
not at all a bad idea.


Hemingway:
"The bull who killed Vicente Girones was named Bocanegra, was Number 118 of the bull-breeding establishment of Sanchez Taberno, and was killed by Pedro Romero as the third bull of that same afternoon. His ear was cut by popular acclamation and given to Pedro Romero, who, in turn, gave it to Lady Brett, who wrapped it in a handkerchief belonging to myself, and left both ear and handkerchief, along with a number of Muratti cigarette-stubs, shoved far back in the drawer of the bed-table that stood beside her bed in the Hotel Montoya, in Pamplona."

My grandmother:
also used to bring food to the table on these wonderful silver serving-trays.

Piaf et ses Encores

Flute. Flûtes.
Bowed Contrebasse.
Don't Cry. Archet.
Amour. Cachet livret paupières parapluie.
Eyebrow Umbrellas.

This little lady dancing on the head of a record needle while angels scratch their heads on the pin.
When Piaf sings in English, she sings twice.
L'accent is something you add to the word.
I haven't met anyone that hasn't fallen in love with someone because of an accent.
Not one.
Sometimes I pretend to have one to see the titled glass of language sparkle against Ms. Stranger's face.

When you live abroad, you live twice. You come back with twice the memories and half your usual life-expectancy.

Listening to this... dans tes grands yeux, rien que nous deux..

My heart pounds fast like a typewriter in a 1940s office and I know I'm using up beats that were supposed to be kept for the older gentleman whose shoes I'm already in.

He'll die young like he wanted because he didn't wait for the lovenote.

Needle lifts.

Elvis 45

-They remind me too much of you-

I found this record in Memphis, Tennessee.
It's one thing when you just record songs because you've got holes in your Hollywood movie.
It's another thing when it sounds this good.

In August I played the very piano that is heard on this track.
It plays you it's such a beautiful instrument.
So even and light.

I listen to this forty-five once a week, eight times in a row.
I just stare at the needle if I'm standing, or the speakers if I'm sitting.
It's a little bit like going to Church, when you mean it.