ARTiST: Joe Henry
TiTLE: Civilians
LABEL: Anti
GENRE: Indie
TiME: 57:46 min
SiZE: 67,9 MB
BiTRATE: VBRkbps
RiP DATE: Aug-17-2007
RELEASE DATE: Sep-10-2007
WEBSiTE: www.joehenrylovesyoumadly.com
Track List:
01. Civilians 04:36
02. Parker's Mood 04:16
03. Civil War 04:42
04. Time Is A Lion 03:55
05. You Can't Fail Me Now 04:13
06. Scare Me To Death 04:54
07. Our Song 06:20
08. Wave 04:30
09. Love Is Enough 04:49
10. I Will Write My Book 04:12
11. Shut Me Up 06:16
12. God Only Knows 05:03
Release Notes:
Good morning, ladies and gentlemen; friends;
esteemed colleaguesàMadam Speaker. Aware as I am
that some of you are updating your files, allow me
to share a few descriptive notes that I hope you may
find relevant to the business at hand. Let the
record show, please, that I arrived here promptly,
under my own steam, and that I formally declare the
handcuffs to be excessive.
As I appear before you, I have just turned 46 years
old. I remain 5Æ9ö tall and hold steady at 146
pounds. My hair is wavy, but only at my express
direction. My eyes are brown or green depending on
the light, and I sometimes appear to have a slight
limp, if remembering a fall I took in London two
years ago October. I am Sagittarian; a Southerner by
birth, and Midwestern by transplant; a loyal spouse
and the well-meaning but jittery father of two. I
live on the fringe of Los Angeles, right where it
begins its slide into the San Gabriel Valley, and in
a house built in 1904 for a First Lady of these
United States of IÆm Sorry; and I do so with my
loving family who tolerate all manner of racket and
laughter issuing from the basement under the guise
of serious work being done. I am experimenting with
drinking smaller amounts of much stronger coffee;
and during fits of insomnia (which I swear has
nothing to do with drinking smaller amounts of much
stronger coffee) I have contemplated opera, dog
training, motorcycles, patriotism, corruption,
metallurgy, Perez Prado, the coming revolution,
insurance, God, baseball, Skip James and the
prospect of making my own gin in a tub behind the
garage. ôHow tough could it be?ö I have asked the
dark ceiling. ôWould I need a permit if not intended
for retail?ö
That may be all any of you has a right to know. But
I am, alas, a simple man, and my life is an open
book, even if some passages have been obscured for
security purposes. Freedom isnÆt free, after all,
and neither is that tiny microphone inside the
saltshaker. But tell the truth: donÆt you just feel
safer knowing itÆs there? I know I do. Where was I?
Oh yes: Five feet, nine inches tall. And wavy hair,
sort of. Not sleeping, and thinking of baseball,
ombudsmen and gin. (Am I going too fast?) I wasnÆt
born in this town, but IÆve taken to it like a
stenographer to a presumed-dead surprise witness,
both played by Gene Hackman in a career-capping dual
role. Los Angeles serves me, and I stand ready to
serve it -in the case of emergency and if/when The
Perez Prado Story ever goes into production. My
proximity to the city allows quick access to legal
aid, fine dining, my favorite drummer and, if need
be, antique prosthetic limbs and period fire
engines, which can be rented by the day or week and
delivered to location.
And location is everything. I can now literally
climb out of bed and fall straight into the basement
of what is known on the historic registry as The
Garfield House without so much as my goggles on and
beàAt Work. I raise a flag out in the front yard
that says, ôHiring!ö and wait for people to show;
and show they do. One week in particular, just after
New Year, I crawled out of the furnace room
(squirrels again) and found I had a full house,
ready and willing to tackle any song I had, no
matter what the key or time signature. They just
really know how to listen, is the thing. They know
by the look in
my eye that IÆm not much on talk, and deplore
options. But what I want is obvious to a blind man,
which is why I work in my own cellar with the
curtains drawn. What some of us feel called to do
with our time has come to be considered providing
aid and comfort to the enemy, I understand; and ours
is a nation that takes its enemies very seriously,
its comfort more so.
But we were talking about music. Loose lips,
desperation and convenient morality might make for
tense dinner conversation, but put them in waltz
time and even the young people lay down their
assault rifles and start crowding up next to the
stage. The songs making up this particular
collection came in fits and starts: a handful quite
some time ago; but the majority arrived in a cluster
in the late fall. I did what anybody would do,
stomping them down and skimming off their juices for
bottling. Then, once theyÆd sat around just long
enough (timing is everything), I called in a few
close friends with no
high concept to guide us other than the time-tested
one of our ancestors: twist and pull, breathe and
pour. It was important to me that I not let any idea
get bigger than the songs themselves. My work is
akin to shoveling out a fireplace: If I do it well,
the next fire will have more air to breathe. And the
fire next time is always the thing. Speaking of
whichà I have noticed with surprise -and only in
retrospect- how often God is mentioned
throughout this 12-song cycle, and He must be
surprised as well. I recognize in His many
appearances, though, not the god of my Methodist
raising, who sat judging tennis balls ôinö or ôoutö
from high on a perch; but one among us, who
stretches like the net itself, wholly visible and
there but to frame the attempt. (To me, this is the
God of Shakespeare, Wilde, Moliere, and Buster
Keaton, and could easily be played by Gene Hackman,
if he wasnÆt otherwise so occupied.)
IÆve already mentioned the widow Garfield in passing
and it is important that she be acknowledged now
that I reside and work in the house built for her
ûthe house in which she died, and where her funeral
was staged; I need to stay on good terms with her
ghostly countenance. She has, to date, been patient
and supportive and seems to prefer the lights low,
as I do. Like a feral animal that marks its turf,
Lucretia (or ôCreteö as The President called her)
has made her presence known in subtle but noticeable
ways on a few occasions. On my first day under her
roof, she did, for instance, insist that my stereo
play only in mono, no matter how I wired it; but
once I conceded that both my engineer and I were
powerless to affect any change, she relented and the
sonic picture snapped back to full ô360-Sound,ö like
The Wizard of Oz going from black-and-white to
Technicolor. Her ghost also appears to prefer that
my guests drink rye instead of bourbon, because once
I made the switch a matter of house policy,
everything seemed to shift for the better. (I might
even go so far as to suggest that Mrs. Garfield
quite likes to hear the piano played, and may have
had something to do with the delivery of Mr. Van
Dyke Parks into our midst. He too seems to float a
bit, and has not the slightest aversion to AmericaÆs
oldest whiskey.) It may be worth noting here as well
that IÆve had to promise the historical society that
a pump organ would be installed, whether it was
recorded or not, and I have taken no chances: you
can hear it throughout this collection, which I hope
will guarantee some good will on the part of that
august chamber when it comes time to build the
rotunda and the landing strip ûboth in a mission
style and in harmony with neighboring structures, of
course.
I will now gladly entertain questions from the
floor. Suffice to say, though, that IÆve never been
happier, in my life or in my work, and I trust the
panel wonÆt count that against me. IÆm well aware
that people tend not to prefer happiness as a
posture when it comes to their singer/songwriters,
but IÆve elected to be unconcerned. ThereÆs still
plenty of time, and you can all take heart: if
history teaches us anything, my comeuppance is
likely just around the corner.