March 15, 2020. Lockdown. At home in my loft office, contemplating my possible death, I decided to find all the songs I’d written, revise them, and put them up on the net. Most of them are to traditional tunes, and I’ve put links to the tunes where possible. I hope people will enjoy reading and singing them, and will pass them on to others who might as well.
I’m interested in how people present themselves.
Words: F the Ineffable
Tune: The Yellow Rose of Texas or any good tune
I‘m not a boy, said little Fred
Dylan’s OCD
I’m ADHD, Joni said,
And Paul is gluten-free.
I’ll be a pirate, Jenny swore
And sail the raging main
Bill said I’ll be a billionaire
And fly my private plane.
Kay said, I’m going to be a geek
And work at Livermore
Jim cried, I am a Jesus freak
Said Kurt, I worship Thor.
Their mothers told them not to shout
Or quarrel as they played.
“I’m glad they got that sorted out
Before they start first grade.”
It’s May Eve, known in Ireland as Bealtaine, in England as Beltane.
Ever notice that May first and Halloween are exactly six months apart? These holidays split the year into two seasons. Smallholders in northern Europe would take their cattle to mountain and moorland pastures with the coming of fair weather, and bring them back home for winter.
Beltane or Bealtaine is the Gaelic May Day festival, marking the beginning of summer. It is traditionally held on 1 May… midway between the spring equinox and summer solstice…widely observed in Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle of Man. … Beltane is one of the four main Celtic seasonal festivals, along with Samhain, Imbolc, and Lughnasadh.
Beltane…marked the beginning of summer, when cattle were driven out to the summer pastures. Rituals were performed to protect cattle, people and crops, and to encourage growth. Special bonfires were kindled, whose flames, smoke and ashes were deemed to have protective powers.
People and their cattle would walk around or between bonfires, and sometimes leap over the flames or embers. Household fires would be doused, and re-lit from the Beltane bonfire. These gatherings would be accompanied by a feast, and some of the food and drink would be offered to the sidhe, the fairies.
Doors, windows, byres and livestock would be decorated with yellow May flowers…In parts of Ireland, people would make a May Bush: typically a thorn bush or branch decorated with flowers, ribbons, bright shells and rushlights. Holy wells were also visited, while Beltane dew was thought to bring beauty and maintain youthfulness. -Wikipedia
(The best source of information is Kevin Danaher’s historical/geographical survey The Year In Ireland. https://www.amazon.com/Year-Ireland-Kevin-Danaher/dp/1856350932)
One of the oldest songs I know is an Irish maying song, Thugamar féin an samhradh linn, “we are bringing the summer with us…yellow summer of the golden daisies.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8JKyYjaz4g
Berkeley Morris Dancers and neo-pagan roisterers still dance the sun up every May morning at Inspiration Point.
Goin’ Native
Words: ©1996 Aurora Borealis Medicine TurkeyTune: Makin’ Whoopee, ©1928 Walter Donaldson and Gus Kahn
In honor of folklorist/anthropologist Sabina Magliocco, who studied Neo-pagan ritual in the San Francisco Bay area.
Our article “The Real Old-Time Religion: Towards an Aesthetic of Neo-Pagan Song” was published in the Canadian journal Ethnologies (1998) and is referenced in her book Witching Culture: Folklore and Neo-Paganism in America. (University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004.)
Another Beltane
Another May
Another folklorist
Has come to stay
She thinks it’s thrilling
That we’re so willing
She’s goin’ native.She’s got her abstract
She’s got her chant
She’s learned a Neo-pagan chant
The news is leaking
Her mother’s freaking
She’s goin’ native.Picture a sweet young scholar
Getting her PhD
Picture that same young scholar
After a year or three.She’s going sky-clad
And riding brooms
She’s doing strange things
With mushrooms
Tell her professor
He can’t suppress her
She’s goin’ native.
Tune: All I Have to Do Is Dream, © 1958, Boudleaux Bryant.
As sung by the Everly Brothers
I fell in love with All Have to Do Is Dream when I was twelve. I bought the Everly Brothers' album, Songs Our Daddy Taught Us, which was my introduction to the musical traditions of the Scots-Irish coal miners of Kentucky.
From adolescent fantasy to geezer reality:
Clean,
Clean, clean, clean
Clean,
Clean, clean, clean
You need to clean,
My mother said
So folks don’t think
You’re crazy in the head
Whatever you’d like to do
You have got to clean
Clean, clean, clean
My kitchen sink’s
A dreadful sight
It’s full of pots
And dishes from last night
The toaster oven’s full of crumbs
And I must clean
I’ve got to dis-
Infect the bathroom wall
Behind the age-
Ing toilet I must crawl
I’d like to read a book,
But I must clean
I could write a song
Exercise, get strong
Anytime, night or day
But I see some dirt
On my shirt
Can’t I just throw it away?
When I feel blue
And want to sing
The thing to do
Is clean the thing
I use to clean the thing
I use to clean…
Clean, clean, clean
I want to scream in the night
I need ice cream to feel all right
The power’s gone out again but
I've got to clean
Clean, clean, clean.
The fridge smells off, it isn’t cold
The fish looks gray, watery and old
I’ve got to throw it all away
So I can clean, clean, clean,
Clean, clean, clean.
I can scrub the floor
Polish my front door
Anytime, night or day
Only trouble is
Gee whiz
I'm scrubbin’ my life away
My mother’s ghost says I should do more
She tells me there’s a toenail on the floor
Whatever I want to do
All I do is clean,
Clean, clean, clean
Clean, clean
When I was recording Crazy Laughter, I re-wrote one troublesome line of Painted Toenails,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sUE2xVLX338,
and wanted to re-record it.
Danny Carnahan, my producer, said, "That'd be like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic."
I hadn't heard that simile before, but it stayed in mind till lockdown...
During the pandemic, I binge-watched The Titanic
Saw the captain and the crew do stupid things and panic.
Watched the great ship split in half and sink below the sea,
Ate my buttered popcorn and was glad it wasn’t me.
Words: F the Ineffable
Tune: The Handsome Cabin Boy
The crew are winching lifeboats down into the freezing sea.
The band is on the boat deck playing Nearer My God To Thee.
I am an able seaman charged with maintenance and repairs,
The bos'n cries, “Go up on deck and rearrange the chairs.”
He says, “What’s all that bloody noise? You better go and check,
And bring a bucket and a mop so you can swab the deck.”
I hear the engines grinding as the boilers steam and smoke,
I gaze around and wonder if there isn’t something broke.
A thousand squealing Norway rats are diving off the side
But I’m not going to follow them, a worker has his pride.
The jewel-bedazzled heiresses and self-made millionaires
Are crowding into lifeboats as I rearrange the chairs.
They’ve locked the doors to steerage so the poor folks can’t get out
“There isn’t room for all of you,” I heard the Captain shout.
The Irish and Italian are all kneeling, saying prayers
While up here on the quarterdeck I’m rearranging chairs.
There doesn’t seem to be any evidence for the legend that the band played Nearer My God To Thee as the ship sank.
Yesterday morning I drove to Fort Bragg
With my African basket and recycled bag.
Fresh out of chocolate! I had to get more,
“Good morning, young lady,” said the man in the store.
Should I forgive him because of his youth?
No, I think it’s better that he learn the truth.
“I’ll not be cajoled by your flattering tongue,
I am not a lady and I am not young.
“One month ago I turned seventy-two
I’ll bet I’m thirty years older than you.
I’m losing my teeth and I’m losing my hair,
And now I’ve lost my bifocals, I don’t know where.
“I live surrounded by things I can’t find
But that doesn’t mean that I’m losing my mind.
I know where it is: it’s right here in my head
And I plan to keep using it till I am dead.
“Now I’ve got my chocolate, I’ll be on my way
I’ve enjoyed talking with you here today.
I’ve made myself clear? I don’t need to say more?”
“Sure thing, young lady,” said the man in the store.
Words and music © 2003 Holly Tannen
Oh, I wanna be a bonobo,
A bonobo life for me
I wanna be a bonobo,
I'm a bonobo wannabe.
We hang around around the trees,
And sit on one another's knees,
And search for nits and ticks and fleas,
It's' a bonobo life for me
CHORUS
We nest up in the trees at night
And fondle everything in sight
We hardly ever have to fight
It's a bonobo life for me.
You can harangue an orangutang
You can moon a baboon
While we cuddle and kiss in bonobial bliss
On our bonobo honeymoon.
Bono, bono, bonobo
Bono, bono, bono
Bono, bono, bonobo
Bono, bono, bono
Oh, come over here Mama Bonobo
Sit on your Daddy's knee
Do you want to bonobo
Bonobo a bit with me?
And if we do bonobo
I will not charge a fee
I'll do it pro bonobo
I'm a bonobo wannabe.
CHORUS
You can thrill a gorilla
Make free with a chimpanzee
But I want to be a bonobo,
It's a bonobo life for me.
I’m reading your annual letter,
It’s full of your annual cheer.
You tell me what’s happening back in New York,
You wonder what’s happening here.
Your daughter’s a pre-med at Swarthmore
Your son’s made the basketball team.
Your husband will clear half a million this year,
Your house is an architect’s dream.
But in Mendocino it’s different,
I run with a musical bunch.
We like to have brownies for breakfast
We like to have mushrooms for lunch.
I spent the sixties in Berkeley
I’m sorry that you were not there
We took LSD while you watched TV
And laughed at our clothes and our hair.
We studied our psychical innards
While you gained political clout
You learned to deal, while we learned to feel
Turning on, tuning in, dropping out.
I’m teaching my parrot to yodel,
I’m learning to play the guitar.
I walk by the sea, I don’t own a TV,
I drive a nineteen-year-old car.
I’ve strolled through your house in the suburbs,
Admiring all of your stuff.
And I still need a shrink, but I can’t help but think
That there is such a thing as enough.
I really loved reading your letter,
I hope you’ve enjoyed all my news.
I’d wish you a wonderful Christmas
Except that we’re both of us Jews.
Yes, in Mendocino I’m happy
I run with a musical bunch
We like to have brownies for breakfast
We like to have mushrooms for lunch.
Tune: any good doo-wop tune that uses that 1-6m-2-5 progression (you’ll recognize it) such as Silhouettes on the Shade.
Victim is the first song on Rime of the Ancient Matriarch. Gene Parsons does all the male voices, and Meridian Green the female voices.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmmpbundJMk
When I was a baby my parents were bad.
They made me angry, screwed up, and sad.
I was a victim, yes I was a victim of them.
Just to abuse me, they sent me to school.
The other children treated me cruel.
I was a victim, yes I was a victim of them.
All of my teachers were mean and cold.
It’s all their fault, all that stuff that I stole.
In junior high school I had no friends.
I sat at home on weekends.
I was a victim,
O-o-o-o I was a victim.
So I got a boyfriend. He was a creep.
He told his friends I was cheap.
I was a victim, yes I was a victim of them.
He said he loved me at the dance,
But all he wanted was to get in my pants.
My Mom and her boyfriend said I was crude.
They kicked me out when I got tattooed.
I was a victim, yes I was a victim of them.
So I got married. He was a drunk.
He had lots of girlfriends, that dirty skunk
I was a victim, yes I was a victim of them.
None of my in-laws take my advice
They all despise me because I am so nice.
Now I have children, one, two, and three
They all complain they’re victims of me
But I am the victim, yes I am the victim of them.
Tom Clunie suggested that my original title, “Farewell to the Monkeys,” was inaccurate and oppressive to monkeys. They aren’t the ones with opposable thumbs, and none of this mess is their fault.
“Farewell to the humans who butcher the lands
With your minuscule brains and your five-fingered hands.
You think you’re so smart, you invented the wheel,
Now you’re killing yourselves with your guns, germs, and steel.
“Oh flipperless biped,” rang the voice of the whale,
“Let primates die out, let the insects prevail.
We pray that the land’s not too blighted to heal
As you kill yourselves off with your guns, germs, and steel.”
“Long ago my own ancestors lived on the land,
But the shore got too crowded, as I understand.
Our elders conferred, and they chose to be free;
So they met on the sand and slid into the sea.
We care for our young in the waters below;
We feed them and teach them what they need to know.
And we don’t give a fluke what you hominids feel,
As you kill yourselves off with your guns, germs and steel.
We are not oppressors, we are not oppressed,
We take what we need, we’re at one with the rest.”
And as he swam by me, I swear that he winked,
“We’ll dance in the ocean when you go extinct.”
Graduate school did this to me.
My second song: a parody of Tom Lehrer’s Be Prepared. The rosebud metaphor draws on Barre Toelken’s Morning Dew and Roses: Metaphor and Meaning In Folksongs. Roses symbolize what you think they symbolize.
Deconstruct! That’s our post-post-modern song
Deconstruct! As through school we slog along,
Writing seven volumes on the letter L,
Using forty-letter words that we can’t spell.
Deconstruct! Decontextualize that text
Deconstruct! Leave your enemies perplexed
Leave your semiotics hidden
Where they cannot be found
And be careful if you gambol
Where the metaphors abound
They are tiny rosebuds waiting to be plucked
Deconstruct!
Deconstruct! That’s the literati’s creed
Deconstruct! Cognitize in word and deed
Don’t problematize your sister, that’s not nice
Unless it’s a dialectical device.
Deconstruct! Obfuscation don’t eschew
There’s no need, since there’s no one reading you
If you’re looking for a paradigm of new and different kind
And you come across a linguist who is similarly inclined
Don’t get nervous, don’t get flustered, don’t get f*cked
Deconstruct!
My first song. It was 1987, I was at Berkeley and I’d bought a computer to write my master’s thesis. Sitting up late at night till my eyes grew watery, I found myself singing lines from John
Anderson, My Jo, an old Scots song printed in The Merry Muses of Caledonia (1800.)
"Ye’ll bleerit a’ your e’en, John, oh, why do you do so? /Come sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo.."
A polite version was popularized by Robert Burns.
John Anderson, my jo, John
I wonder what you mean
To sit awake so late at night
At that Macintosh machine?
Starin’ at a screen, John
Oh, why do you do so?
Come sooner tae your bed at e’en
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John
When that we first began
You had as good a tail-tree
As any other man.
But noo it waxes wan, John,
And wrinkles to and fro
I blame it on the Internet
John Anderson, my jo.
And oh, but it’s a fine thing
To have your ain website
But it’s a muckle finer thing
To see your hurdies fyke
To see your hurdies fyke, John
And strike the risin’ blow
’Tis better than your Macintosh
John Anderson, my jo.
I’m backit like the salmon
I’m breested like the swan
My wame it is a dovecote
My middle ye may span
Frae topknot tae my tail, John,
I’m like the new-fall’n snow
And ye can’t say that o’ the Internet
John Anderson, my jo.
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