As you will see above, I’ve added a couple of pages to this blog.

Musical events is for – well, musical events. It isn’t likely to became the world’s biggest, most comprehensive resource, and maintenance will be on a strictly “best endeavours” basis, but it will include the occasional event I’d like to bring to your attention, whether or not I’m personally involved. Obviously, it will tend to feature events that my musical friends are involved with, such as Wychwood’s Wychjam!! fundraiser for Oxfam on 30th January in Hook, Hampshire, and Mark Buck’s CD launch party on February 4th at the Pigalle in London. And that, of course, is what the musical friends page is for: so that if you’re so inclined, you can find out more about Wychwood, Mark, Vic Cracknell et al.

We now return you to your normal programming.

What would Christmas be without The Snowman?

I’m snoring in my chair
I think I’ve had too much to eat
And even if I tried
I couldn’t leave my seat.

I’m getting very tight:
I didn’t need those last two beers
And now that last mince pie
Has dribbled down my tie.

     Somebody offered me another cup of tea
     Turkey sandwich, more plum pudding, woe is me…

I’ve turned off the TV
The Queen’s speech was keeping me awake
And one more Singing Nun
Is more than I can take

I’m sprawling on the stairs
I haven’t got the strength to rise
And dear old Auntie Jill
Is in the bathroom still.

     Uncle Dick is feeling sick, he’s running for the loo
     Heaving like a mighty monster from the zoo

I’m surfing in my lair
Looking for some online deals
To spend next Christmas Day
On a cruise ship far away…

Heartfelt apologies to Howard Blake (and, indeed to Raymond Briggs). But this parody has been begging to be written for years, and I finally got around to putting fingers to keyboard…

Heatwave (David Harley)

All Rights Reserved

 

 

There’s a heatwave in the city and the day drags on forever

The tarmac burns through patent leather

Clear through to the sole

Ice tumbles through glass as the temperature soars

And the dayshift leaves the nightshift to take over for a while

The city sings at midnight to the well-fed and the civilized

While waiters mop their faces in the kitchen, out of sight

Small change pours in torrents over counters in the bistros

And the moon hangs red and sullen in the dustbowl of the sky

 

The city is on heat, bare-legged girls in summer dresses

Dodge the lechery of workmen laying cable through the day

But the night turns on the body to sweet pornography

Passions feed on darkness and the body mutes the mind

The city squeals at midnight in its pain and ecstasy

The life-force surges through the veins and soaks the sheets

The couples claw and couple and feed upon each other

And still the hunger rages through the streets

 

I saw a refugee from Galway with a faceful of stubble

Singing sentimental songs in the underground today

He’s going back to Mother Ireland and the Mountains of Mourne

And he only needs a bob or two to help him on his way

The city whimpers at midnight in its apathy and squalor

From a bench on the Embankment, from a derry in Barnes

From a squat in Deptford, from the winos and the junkies

From the homeless and the helpless, the hopeless and the lost

 

A refugee from Calvary is preaching anarchy and anger

Through his 40 Megawatt PA

And when the concert’s over he packs his guitars and prophecies

And goes back to his hotel to drink the night into the day

 

But out there in the streets the word is out all over

The heat are out for action in New Cross and Ladbroke Grove

The temperature is dropping but the tempers are at flashpoint

And no-one lingers on street corners if they’re walking home alone

The city screams at midnight in the agony of anger

The rocksteady revolution pays its homage to its dead

Where dreadlocks meet deadlock the shock tears up the flagstones

And on their righteous anger the riot squads are fed

 

The Klan charts fiery crosses cloistered in an upstairs room

The architects of reaction spin their bitter webs

Entangling and exploiting the kids with skinhead hairstyles

And no-one dares explain the chaos in their heads

 

A Pakistani youth lies bleeding in the gutter

A Jamaican girl is raped behind a dockyard wall

Black and white scrawl their frustrations in blood across the charge-sheets

A copper clutches at his stomach where a flick-knife said it all

The city burns at midnight and the blood runs down the sewers

In the ghettoes and the side-streets where the patriots have been

Squad cars and an ambulance cut through the aftermath

And tomorrow’s front pages unfurl to set the scene

 

From the never-released “Diverse Brew” album, which would also have featured Bob Theil, Don McLeod, Bob Cairns, and Pat Orchard. Not the way I’d have written (or recorded) it now, but I still kind of like it.

 

MP3 and more info at http://www.smallblue-greenworld.co.uk/mp3s.htm 

True Confessions (By David Harley & Don MacLeod)
All Rights Reserved

 

 

You don’t have to talk, you know it’s really not a case

Of finding words for filling in our time and space

I’ll still be here tomorrow, if that’s what you want too

Who else could take me where we’ve been?

No-one else but you

 

The day was a river of darkness

Till you brightened up the night

And that’s the best of good reasons

To come close and turn down the light

 

There’s a lot to say, a lot I guess we should discuss

But surely later would be soon enough

I’ll still be here tomorrow, if that’s what you want too

Who else could take me where we’ve been?

No-one else but you

 

It’s not the time for true confessions

Lying here still aglow

With all your warmth and softness

God knows there’s nowhere else I’d want to go

 

We could talk of time and changes, good trips and bad

And just for once time is on our side

But now’s the time for loving and resting so close

And yesterday is dreams and nursery rhymes

I’ll still be here tomorrow, if that’s what you want too

Who else could take me where we’ve been?

No-one else but you

Who else could take me where we’ve been?

No-one else but you

 

Another track from the never-released Diverse Brew album. MP3 and more info at http://www.smallblue-greenworld.co.uk/mp3s.htm 

One Step Away From The Blues (David Harley)

All Rights Reserved

 

 

He never wanted her love, just a piece of her time

A loving night now and then, and no loving lies

Just a tender glance from distant eyes

But he learned too late to recognize

That he was far, far away – he’d missed the alarm

Drowning far, far away in other arms

He hadn’t noticed her changing till daylight broke him the news

Far, far away, one step away from the blues

 

He never wanted to stray far away from himself

He never thought he’d rely on anyone else

For a light in the window, a knock on the door

Somewhere to keep warm when the nights turned cold

But she was far, far away when the blizzard set in

The door stood silent and locked, and he was soaked to the skin

He hadn’t noticed her changing till she left him with nothing to lose

Far, far away, one step away from the blues

 

He only wanted to give a small part of himself

But she took his heart then found someone else

She never thought he’d give her more than a thought or two

When she packed a few bags and cut herself loose

And went far, far away in search of herself

Never thinking to leave her new address

Neither of them knew he was changing

Till he woke up with nothing to lose

Far, far away

Far, far away

Far, far away

One step away from the blues

 

From the unreleased “Diverse Brew” album. MP3 and more info at http://www.smallblue-greenworld.co.uk/mp3s.htm 

Death of a Marriage (Words & Music by David Harley)
All Rights Reserved

The blinds are down, the locks are changed,
His cases packed and sent:
Some boxes for collection gather dust.
They’re shaking hands like strangers – that’s all that either dares:
It’s just the death of a marriage and there’s no room left for trust.

The bedroom they shared is advertised to let,
And she’s moved in with the kids.
He’s found himself a bedsit, it’s handy for his job,
But it’s the death of a marriage that was too long on the skids.

He spends a lot of time alone, because the maintenance is crippling
And he hasn’t got the bread to do the town:
He’s restless and confused, and not too certain what he wants,
Feeling guilty, ‘cause he knows he’s let her down.

She’s anxious and she’s angry, and the kids are a pain:
They miss their dad, and mum gets upset easily.
She rings from time to time, and they talk about her problems:
She says he has it easy, and of course he disagrees.

Sometimes they meet for a lunchtime drink:
He babysits, and sometimes takes the kids out for the day.
They both see other people, but they’re scared to get involved:
They’ve both been hurt too much already, and there isn’t much to say.

Sometimes, almost by chance, they spend the night together,
And wonder how they managed on their own,
But sooner or later the arguments take over:
It’s just a dying marriage that refuses to lie down.

They live day-to-day with their crises and neuroses:
Making some sort of adjustment, as best they can they cope,
Huddled round the embers of the love that passed between them,
They see each other growing older, and they’re learning not to hope.

The blinds are down, the locks are changed,
His cases packed and sent:
Some boxes for collection gather dust.
They’re shaking hands like strangers – that’s all that either dares:
It’s just the death of a marriage and there’s no room left for trust.

MP3 and more info at http://www.smallblue-greenworld.co.uk/mp3s.htm

She’s Gone (by Don MacLeod and David Harley)
All Rights Reserved

She’s gone: too bad…
And I wanted so much more
But now, too late,
I see what she was looking for
Wasn’t me at all
Just a lay-by
On the road to bigger things

Too bad: I guess
We all live and learn
Too late, sometimes, like now
But she’s not concerned
About who she burns
So I guess I’ll just get on with my life

She met someone else, and then went away
And it broke me up, but just today
I woke up with someone else on my mind
I guess I can take it, I guess I’ll survive

One day at a time
Until I make contact
And I’ll forget in time
How she turned her back
And said so matter-of-fact
“My love, I don’t love you any more…”

I lost my woman to another man
There’s nothing new under the sun
I woke up with someone else by my side
I guess I can take it, I guess I’ll survive

One day
At a time
One day
At a time…

MP3 and more info at http://www.smallblue-greenworld.co.uk/mp3s.htm

Sheer Bravado (by David Harley & Don MacLeod)
All Rights Reserved

Look at us now, back to back
And so choked up
That neither dares to say a word.
What is this crazy game
where losing doesn’t count
As long as no-one sees you’re hurt?

It doesn’t seem to me
That you really want to break up:
And moving on is light years
From my mind.
Yet we fence and fight and snap
And when we ransack our emotions
For a clue to what we’re doing, all we find
Is sheer bravado.

It’s just make-believe:
Behind the thrust and parry,
We’re just two frightened people talking tough.
No-one would believe
We were so close an hour ago:
Isn’t it time we called our bluff?

It doesn’t seem to me
That you really want to break up:
And moving on is light years
From my mind.
Yet we fence and fight and snap
And when we ransack our emotions
For a clue to what we’re doing, all we find
Is sheer bravado….

From “Sheer Bravado”, oddly enough. MP3 and more info at http://www.smallblue-greenworld.co.uk/mp3s.htm

The Weekends (Words by David Harley – Tune Traditional)
All rights reserved

The world has changed since I was born in 1902.
Two World Wars have swept away the world that we once knew:
Two brothers and three sisters , long dead and gone to earth
Our lives were often hard, but now the weekends are the worst.

My old man died just 20 years past.
His health was never good since the Kaiser had him gassed,
But in the end it was cancer that carried him off so fast
I miss him all the time, and the weekends are the worst.

You might say I was lucky, though we never had much cash,
But we had 50-odd good years, more than I’d dare to ask.
I brought up three lovely kids, though another died at birth:
I miss them all a lot, and the weekends are the worst.

I’ve a son in Melbourne, he’s been there since ’62:
I’ve never seen his wife or kids, just a snapshot or two.
My eldest died in the last lot, on a convoy to Murmansk:
It still brings tears to my eyes, and the weekends are the worst.

I’ve a daughter in Glasgow: she writes when she has time,
But that’s a long way off, and I’ve not seen her for a while.
She’s got a son in the army, just been posted to Belfast:
We worry all the time, and the weekends are the worst.

My friends are mostly dead, or else they’ve moved like me
When the street I was brought up in was pulled down in ’63.
Sixty years I’d lived there, child, girl and wife:
Sheltered housing’s not so bad but it can be a lonely life.
Especially since Jim died: we weren’t too bad at first
But now I’m on my own the weekends are the worst.

There’s the club once a week, though it’s just from seven till nine,
And since my fall they only fetch me down from time to time.
There’s my knitting and the TV, for what that might be worth,
But I miss the company, and the weekends are the worst.

MP3 and more info at http://www.smallblue-greenworld.co.uk/mp3s.htm

Long Stand (Words and Music by David Harley)
All rights reserved.

 

 

The day I started work, the foreman said to me,
“I’ve another job for you when you’ve finished brewing tea:
Go down to the stores and when you find old Stan,
Tell him Harry sent you for a long stand.”
 

I got a long stand all right: I stood an hour or more,
Till Stan got tired of the joke and sent me back to the shop floor.
Well I didn’t think it funny, but I laughed and held my peace,
Even when they sent me back for a tin of elbow grease.

 

Still I did my bit, till I was pensioned off in 69
From apprentice to foreman, all down the production line.
Many’s the lad I’ve sent myself when things were getting dull
For a can of striped paint or a pound of rubber nails.

 

But the joke they’re playing now, I just don’t think it’s fair:
Even when you get your ticket, the work just isn’t there.
The safest job in England is handing out the dole:
For every man that gets a job they turn away a hundred more.

 

For now the work is scarce, again, the queues are building up.
The streets are full of lads and lasses looking out for jobs;
But when you’ve just left school, you hardly stand a chance
They’re sending every lad in England for a long stand.

 

They say that if you’ve got the gumption you can do just as you please.
They say you’ll do all right with a bit of elbow grease;
But with a hundred out for every job, it’s few that stand a chance
They’re sending every lad in England for a long stand
They’re sending every lass in England for a long, long stand

 

MP3 and more info at http://www.smallblue-greenworld.co.uk/mp3s.htm