(A Tribute to an Unknown Singer Sonwriter)
And now for something completely different.” –Monty Python’s Flying Circus
(Please click below and follow along with the lyrics)
GAS PUMP JOCKEY WITH THE SPOOKY SMILE©
I’m the gas pump jockey with the spooky smile
Pull in for fuel if it’s been a while
Come on in, you’ve traveled many a mile
I’m the gas pump jockey with the spooky smile
I promise you I won’t bite your dog
Or expect very much dialogue
I’ll wave at your kids, smile at your wife
I’ll probably be here for the rest of my life
I’m the gas pump jockey with the spooky smile
Pull in for fuel if it’s been a while
Come on in, you’ve traveled many a mile
I’m the gas pump jockey with the spooky smile
I’ll check your oil if you want me to
I’ll wash your windshield till it looks like new
Pay by credit, pay by cash
Yes I’ll even throw out your trash
I’m into ???? and my hair is long
I like a country and western song
I still take tips occasionally
I’m the best pump attendant I could ever be
I’m not all that handy but I’ll fix your flar
I wear the company logo hat
Wind, sleet, rain or snow
The customer’s always right you know
Regular, mid-grade, or supreme
I am here to fulfill your dream
Tire’s flat, needs some air
I got a gauge and I’ll be right there
I’m the gas pump jockey with the spooky smile
Pull in for fuel if it’s been a while
Come on in, you’ve traveled many a mile
I’m the gas pump jockey with the spooky smile
I’m the gas pump jockey with the spooky smile
Pull in for fuel if it’s been a while
Come on in, you’ve traveled many a mile
I’m the gas pump jockey with the spooky smile
(This song was composed and performed by an actual gas station attendant, albeit one with a creative and humbly self-deprecating sense of humor at times. One who lived with a big monkey of a MUSEon his back that relentlessly compelled him to compose and record songs all about 75% of whatever might come down the pike of his experience. And what had come down the pike in the case of the goofy smile was a trip to a dentist and, consequently, an embarrassing gap-toothed grin.)
All my life I’ve been an observer, discoverer, and sharer of what appears (to me) as the interestingly unusual. Such finds entertain me, teach me a little more about the world I live in, and make for intriguing conversation with others. I’m a storyteller after all, so interesting and unusual tidbits are my bread and butter. But see, in this blog it’s my job to share with you a motley variety of “roadside attractions” I’ve picked up along the turnpike of my own journey. Basically I suppose that makes me kind of a local yokel version of one of those washed-up History Channel celebrities, like William Shatner hosting The Unexplained.
And this particular singer/songwriter is just one more subject of my many episodes of Tom Lyford’s The Interestingly Unusual.
Joel was nothing if not an amazingly indefatigable songwriter. The good, the bad, and the ugly? All of it was fodder for the imaginings that would inlay their way into his various rock and roll, blues, folk, patriotic and/or protest songs, country and western ballads, and tributes. And this guy conjured up hundreds of songs. Literally. I would know, because I was the friend who voluntarily recorded a library of most of his output. On CDs.
I’m talking CDs you’ve never seen nor even heard of though, CDs featuring a singer/songwriter who’s “as unknown as they get” (to use the artist’s own words). How’s this for odd: pouring a lifetime of effort into productions destined to be sampled by exactly no one! Well, except for the same old baker’s dozen of his very few close friends (which you could count with the fingers of one hand) and family.
Despite the fact that Joel’s output was industrious, he viewed much of his talent and work with humility.
(Please click on the link below, and follow along)
SONGWRITER©
There’s cats and hacks and geniuses
Takes all kinds in the music biz
Some will make the Hall of Fame
Or become a forgotten name
Some will last on radio
Their popularity will grow
Some fade to obscurity
Playin’ clubs for a modest fee
I am a songwriter who ain’t
made the Big Time yet
I’m as unknown as they get
I am a songwriter who would
love to write a hit…
This one isn’t it.
Some develop fans for life
Other than their mom and wife
Some draw numbers quite obscene
Rolling Stones or Bruce Springsteen
Some attract a college crowd
Mellow, rockin’, soft or loud
Music that is hot and hip
Makes’em all wanna dance and strip
I am a songwriter who would
love to sell a song,
but they all come out wrong
I am a songwriter who could use a
brand new car
Please make me a star
I’ve never written anything
that’s revolutionary
I won’t set a music trend
I’m very ordinary
If a wrote an awesome tune
then maybe I could score
a platinum selling number one
and take it out on tour
There are those who have the gift
They’ve got talent, get the drift
Others, they could write all day
Still have nothing good to play
Some write songs spontaneously
Others craft them carefully
Some write stuff that really sucks
And still it makes them megabucks
I am a songwriter who has never
made a dime
Singing his own rhyme
I am a songwriter with a
guitar in his lap
Who made up this crap
Someday I might write the one
that turns a million ears
If it takes a hundred years
Joel, the singer/songwriter. I was his biggest fan. I’ve selected here a variety of what I consider to be among Joel’s best. I realize his music may not be for everyone. But I’ve always felt it was a shame that his stuff never really got to see more of the light of day. So… I’m just here to give him his due. Posthumously.
Some Odds and Ends About Joel’s Life
The Beginning
Hanging out in the band room (at the expense of his English, math, science, and social studies) was the only thing that motivated Joel in school. In the music department’s classrooms he took piano and guitar lessons, and this led to music becoming an integral part of his life. The idea of becoming a lifelong musician was suddenly all he could think and dream about.
At some point in high school, he made the rash decision to drop out. He was going to put together a band. And he did. More than one. But the very idea of a rocker’s exciting lifestyle, even in middle school back in the 70’s and 80’s, invited rock musicians to take certain risks.
Click on the link below to follow along:
CRISPY FRIED©
First time I ever got high was behind the school
I laughed my fool head off and thought I was cool
I sold my record collection just for dope and cash
Must have cost a new car into smoke and ash
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
First time I ever got drunk was on a bottle of wine
It cost me 99 cents and almost made me blind
Next mornin’ I had a head felt like a medicine ball
That’s been bounced up and down and around the hall
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
At fifteen I thought I was hip
Dancin’ around in my very first acid trip
First time I tried cocaine I got a wicked good buzz
It became one of my favorite loves
More than once I was snorting to a pile
Spillin’ it all over the bathroom tile
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
I did a lot for a long time to my brain
Now it looks like I might never be the same
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
So damn wasted so out to lunch
Crispy fried to a crackly crunch
It’s too much
And consequently Joel ended up having a dark and wildly adventurous past. He got drafted into the Army. But of course the fact that he’d never had any patience with authority figures didn’t bode too well for him militarily. So duh, that didn’t end well.
He went A.W.O.L.
He took off on one of those rite-of-passage cross-country odysseys with little but his guitar and backpack, all by his lonesome. And when his bus fare cash ran out, he hitch-hiked and took up some odd jobs along the way. He made it a good three quarters of the way to the Pacific Ocean before some grifters who’d offered him a ride just drove off with both his guitar and backpack while he was in a convenience store.
He turned himself in at a nearby Air Force base. Was arrested and returned to the Army. Where he convinced his superiors that he was never going to be a soldier, and was (I imagine dishonorably) discharged. And then he was right back in his little old hometown of Dexter, Maine where there were few prospects, and even fewer for a hopeful musician. He got a job at a shoe factory and made enough dough to eke out a life. Got a new guitar and joined a band or two. And composed songs.
Click the link below to follow along:
IF THE MILL SHUTS DOWN©
I punch in at seven and I’m out by five
I don’t make much money but I do survive
I was homegrown here in this factory town
But there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
Imports are hurting the economy
Our standard of living is in jeopardy
The working man pays for the rich man’s crown
But there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
The foreman is asking for volunteers
take the lay-off slip, first time in years
And the supervisor wears a crown
”Cause there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
We’ve been cut back to thirty-two hours a week
The industry’s future looks mighty bleak
And this is the only job left around
So there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
I punch in at seven and I’m out by five
I don’t make much money but I do survive
I was homegrown here in this factory town
But there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
I punch in at seven and I’m out by five
I don’t make much money but I do survive
I was homegrown here in this factory town
But there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
Imports are hurting the economy
Our standard of living is in jeopardy
The working man pays for the rich man’s crown
But there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
The foreman is asking for volunteers
take the lay-off slip, first time in years
And the supervisor wears a crown
But there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
We’ve been cut back to thirty-two hours a week
The industry’s future looks mighty bleak
And this is the only job left around
So there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
I punch in at seven and I’m out by five
I don’t make much money but I do survive
I was homegrown here in this factory town
But there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
No, there’ll be no work if the mill shuts down
Joel married, had a daughter he loved dearly, and got divorced. And time passed
I met him back in the early 90s. Turned out he and I both had one friend in common. Ever hear of him? Some old guy named Bill W. We didn’t hit it off right away. We were from different worlds. I was the high school English teacher, and 50+% of America’s population ends up not liking English teachers. Joel was one of those in the negative 50. He had a kind of gaunt, scruffy look about him, always showing up in an old beat-up Army field jacket. He never spoke much. Kept to himself a lot. His appearance (to me) cried outlaw. And I made him out to be a stoner. And I was right.
We were two different kinds of cat. We had little in common. At least not until I discovered his favorite musicians were exactly the same as mine! Bob Dylan, The Stones, Neil Young, The Beatles, Tom Waits, Bruce Springsteen, Steve Earle, John Hiatt, Tom Petty, Eric Clapton, Warren Zevon, Townes Van Zandt, and Willie Nelson. And then lo and behold, it turned out that he was into poetry too, especially the Beat Poets and Outlaw Poetry. Hey, so was I. And then on top of that I discovered he was literate! Not just literate. Very literate. Sure, he was a drop out, but over the years since high school he’d gone on to become a life-long reader, an aficionado of the great classics, the poets, the histories, and the philosophers. He had a library card and used it. He’d become a knowledgeable, self-educated soul. I mean, he was only one of two guys I ever knew who’d actually read War and Peace cover to cover. And no, I wasn’t the other one.
I found myself wondering, Who IS this guy?
Well for one thing, he was this counter-culture freak deep into Jack Kerouac. And when I heard him perform his “Jack Kerouac” at an open-mic one night, I had to sit up and take notice.
Click the link below to follow along:
JACK KEROUAC©
Jack was rad, Jack was mad.
Kerouac was the most beautiful we had
Jack would rage, Jack he gave
The very best he had to give
to Burma Shave
Jack and Neal were the deal.
Jack would hitch hike
Neal drove everything he’d steal
Smoking tea on benzedrine
They would rap all night
With Neal behind the wheel
Where was Jack Kerouac at?
Did he have beatific vision?
Would he come back with a rap
For all of us?
Where was Jack Kerouac at?
It could have been a good decision
If he’d plugged his deadly jug
And join the bus.
Doctor Sax hit the facts
Layin’ down the beat refrain
With railroad tracks
And he showed through his code
That he had the most gone rhythm
On the road
Where was Jack Kerouac at?
Did he have beatific vision?
Would he come back with a rap
For all of us?
Where was Jack Kerouac at?
It could have been a good decision
If he’d plugged his deadly jug
And join the bus.
Kesey begged him, “Come along
And find a brand new trip.”
But with Jack that tired song
Was sunken like a ship.
He’d become the Dharma bum
Who would drink his Toquay wine
to get all numb
Off he’d go on his floe
From his Massachusetts home
to Mexico
Where was Jack Kerouac at?
Did he have beatific vision?
Would he come back with a rap
For all of us?
Where was Jack Kerouac at?
It could have been a good decision
If he’d plugged his deadly jug
And join the bus.
Where was Jack Kerouac at?
And then? And THEN…? Well, it turned out that like me, he was also a big fan of the sleaze bag novelist and poet, Charles “Hank” Bukowski! I couldn’t believe it. One of my underground favorites. And when I heard him sing his very own “Bukowski” at an open-mic, I was knocked for a loop for a loop.
BUKOWSKI©
Screenshot
Click the link below to follow along:
Charles Bukowski lived a life of drunken, squalid raunch
With pitted face and tiny hands and alcoholic paunch
Writing the tales of a dirty old man was Charlie’s bread and butter
Lived on whiskey, wine, and beer– his mind was in the gutter
Hot damn, Bukowski, I woulda had a drink with you
A literate kind of scoundrel who wouldn’t turn down a screw
Hot damn Bukowski, a novelist and a cad
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
About the lowlife laureate of American literature
So worthy and jaded his poetry was pure
He wrote a screenplay called Barfly, based upon his youth
Drinkin’ and fightin’ in alley ways, man, he tells the truth
Hot damn, Bukowski, I woulda had a drink with you
A literate kind of scoundrel who wouldn’t turn down a screw
Hot damn Bukowski, a novelist and a cad
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
And they called him Hank
And he always drank
Loved many a skank
Took it to the bank!
He worked for a while sorting mail, post office in LA
Hanging out with whores and gambling all his blues away
He became the darling of the LA underground
And ended up in Hollywood, the Toast of Tinsel Town
Hot damn, Bukowski, I woulda had a drink with you
A literate kind of scoundrel who wouldn’t turn down a screw
Hot damn Bukowski, a novelist and a cad
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
And they called him Hank
And he always drank
Loved many a skank
Took it to the bank!
Well, hot damn, Bukowski, I woulda had a drink with you
A literate kind of scoundrel who wouldn’t turn down a screw
Hot damn Bukowski, a novelist and a cad
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
You sit upon my book shelf spillin’ the best of what you had
So we started visiting each other. And then we did it. We became frends. Good friends, though strange bedfellows for sure. We spilled our guts to each other about our long, often unhappy lives.
Joel was many things. A member of a pretty sketchy looking rock band, The Breakers. He was an admitted alcoholic. Plus he’d experimented and gotten hooked on and off every drug known to man, plus a few others. Even acid. I was way out of his league. Overall he’d striven to live a life as raunchy as his patron saint himself and, like Bukowski, he was no stranger to the occasional jail cell or two. Plus from what I learned, his life had also been one long, dangerous, sexually permissive adventure. Half the songs he wrote were rife with wild women who’d populated his life.
I don’t know how successful he actually was at the dating game, but he’d outgrown that part of his life by the time I met him. He still missed it of course. Because Joel had been, and still was, a Don Juan wannabe. His songlist was laden with a prurient and randy nostagia.
Click to follow along:
HEY LITTLE WOMAN©
You’ve got an innocence that’s real appealin’
But it’s not just your heart that I’d be stealin’
You ain’t that pretty and you got no leg
But I’d be willin’ to sit up and beg
Hey little woman, where you goin’ tonight?
How’d your daddy ever let you out of his sight?
Hey little woman where you goin’ to roam?
Don’t you have a daddy waitin’ for you at home?
You make an older boy feel much younger
Somethin’ about you makes me ache with hunger
I’m the big bad wolf wishin’ that he could
Pull up with little Red Ridin’ Hood
Hey little woman, where you goin’ tonight?
How’d your daddy ever let you out of his sight?
Hey little woman where you goin’ to roam?
Don’t you have a daddy waitin’ for you at home?
I got to tell you it’s a rare occasion
I wish I had the powers of persuasion
I’d cast a spell to last a week or two
So I could get a little taste of you
Hey little woman, where you goin’ tonight?
How’d your daddy ever let you out of his sight?
Hey little woman where you goin’ to roam?
Don’t you have a daddy waitin’ for you at home?
Hey hey little woman, where you goin’ tonight?
How’d your daddy ever let you out of his sight?
Hey hey little woman where you goin’ to roam?
Don’t you have a daddy waitin’ for you at home?
Waitin’ for you at home?
I know Joel was feeling betrayed by the aging process.
When I’d gotten to know him, he was a loner who kept himself squirreled away in his little rented apartment with his pencils and notebooks, his guitar, his stereo, his cassette tape recorder, and a cat named Crash. There he worked his craft like a monk in a monastery, writing day after day. Rewriting. Recording his rough drafts. Listening to the playbacks booming out on that megawatt stereo (and how the apartment dwellers in that building didn’t call the cops with noise complaints I’ll never know). And then going back to the drawing board all over again. For more.
The solitary life took its toll. I know he preferred to be alone, but at the same time missed company.
He was constantly taking inventory of himself in is songs. He was good at that, stepping outside of himself and doing self-exams. His lifestyle may’ve been unhealthy, but his habits inspired his dark, razor sharp lyrics. Joel was nothing, if not a lyricist.
Cli4ck the link to follow along
HAUNTED MANSION©
There are shadows in the corners
Of all my memories
Crumbling moral failings
Have often haunted me
Phantasms of perversions
Have moaned their sorry wail
Within the walls of conscience
So prickly and pale
I’m like a haunted mansion
Ramshackled and run down
That seems a little creepy
No one comes around
And like a haunted mansion
There are ghosts to find
On every languid level
Loom within my mind
Indulgence demonized me
I’ve been so damn depraved
I even spooked my own self
To think how very grave
And wanton was my evil
The spectres stalk me still
In every room and hallway
On every floor until
I’m like a haunted mansion
Ramshackled and run down
That seems a little creepy
No one comes around
And like a haunted mansion
There are ghosts to find
On every languid level
Loom within my mind
I’m sitting right in plain view
Of any who live near
And ‘cause they may not know me
Their hearts may fill with fear
Should they hear the rumors
That surely can be spread
About this mansion’s history
And all its awful dread
I’m like a haunted mansion
Where children dare not play
And forces would destroy you
If they could have their way
This poor old battered building
Is in need of repair
It needs the light of reason
To shine on it with care
I’m like a haunted mansion
Ramshackled and run down
That seems a little creepy
No one comes around
And like a haunted mansion
There are ghosts to find
On every languid level
Loom within my mind
Loom within my mind
Like a haunted mansion
The man wrote and wrote and wrote. And I feel privileged to have been welcomed to spend so many hours, days, weeks, and months of his life– me, sitting at his kitchen table while he, sitting across from me with guitar in lap, played me some brand new one he’d just started working on maybe, or one he felt and hoped was a done deal. And he allowed me to be a tiny part of his process, using me as a soundboard now and then.
I’ll tell you what I love about Joel’s songwriting. His lyrics. In so many of his songs it’s the imagery, and the way he’d string well-chosen words together for the greatest effect. I would loved to have had him as a student in one of my English classes.
I’ll also tell you what I love about Joel. His honesty, his humility and his courage. He was one of the most honest men I’ve ever met.
He was a best friend. And yes, our relationship was one of opposites, The “strange bed fellows” thing. Butit was a soul adventure for me. And our friendship spanned more than a couple of decades.
THIS SONG MAY NOT BE WORTH MUCH©
Click the link to follow along:
This song can’t change the weather
This song can’t brush your teeth
This song does not wear leather
This song won’t cause you grief
This song is not too heavy
This song can’t read the news
This song may not be worth much
But to tell you I love you
This song won’t win a Grammy
This song won’t make a pass
This song won’t paint your fanny
This song won’t give you gas
This song won’t make you lonesome
This song won’t make you blue
This song may not be worth much
But to tell you I love you
This song ain’t hard to follow
It speaks a simple language
This song is getting hungry,
Won’t you feed this song a sandwich
This song won’t wash your dishes
This song won’t clean your clothes
This song won’t grant your wishes
This song won’t blow your nose
This song may not do nothing
That you would like it to
This song may not be worth much
But to tell you I love you
This song is kind of clumsy
This song is quite a clod
This song may have two left feet
This song is rather odd
This song can’t change your tire
This song is always broke
This song can’t start a fire
This song can’t tell a joke
This song can’t put your pants on
This song can’t tie your shoe
This song may not be worth much
But to tell you I love you
This song is not self-righteous
It doesn’t preach or judge
This song can love all of mankind
This song can’t hold a grudge
This song can’t change the station
On you big HG TV
This song is on vacation
More or less permanently
This song has no opinions
No agenda to push through
This song may not be worth much
But to tell you I love you
JOEL (1958-2022)
Missing you, old friend
(Wait a moment for encore)
Seated on our front porch
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