TomFlannery.com

 A demo of a new song…

That Ring It Don’t Fit Your Finger Anymore

Flowers fade away
left where they lay
things may have come to pass
just a little too fast
when time goes by
like a thief past a door
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Now and forever
’till death do us part
some things invade
in the shape of a heart
like expired foodstuffs
on the shelves at the store
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Father forgive me
I know not what I do
I’m guilty of nothing
‘cept no belief in you
still reaching in the pockets
of the clothes that you wore
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Line ’em all up
and knock ’em all back
six guns six shooters
sixth senses dressed in black
plaques and tangles
and grooves in the floor
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Anesthitize familiarize
streets with corner bars
long dead prescriptions
and stranded winter cars
don’t accept nothing
but always wanting more
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Father forgive me
I know not what I do
I’m guilty of nothing
‘cept no belief in you
still reaching in the pockets
of the clothes that you wore
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

when time goes by
like a thief past a door
that ring it don’t fit your finger anymore

Strange days. I’m in the process of making what is probably my quietest, most personal record, and all around me storms are raging. Katrina was 5 years ago, and the debris is still littered about. People are still living in FEMA trailers. Neighborhoods that our government promised to re-build remain un-re-built. And now forecasters are keeping their eyes on new potential hurricanes forming in the Gulf. New Orleans is no more capable of handing another Katrina-like storm today than she was in 2005. It’s only a matter of time before a great American city disappears completely….like a modern-day Atlantis. It’s not just sad, it’s criminal. If we can’t take care of our own, I’m not sure we should be believed when we claim to be “taking care” of someone else. Like Iraqis and Afghans for instance. Meanwhile, “Brownie” now works as a “consultant” for a disaster management company. If you tried to make this stuff up you’d be prescribed enough pills to lay out every animal in a circus.

The mantra is still “drill baby drill” even though BP proved that we really don’t know how to without possibly fucking up countless lives, and maybe even the ecosystem for about 1000 years. What of a 3rd generation fisherman in one of those small gulf coast towns turned overnight into a large tar-pit? He wakes in the morning now and….what? Puts on the War-Mart smiley face pin? Goes to class to learn how to use Microsoft Word? Meanwhile, the rest of us yell at the waiter for the rising price of shrimp at Red Lobster. Do we even know how to pull together anymore?

Gotta blame someone though. Illegals are a good pick. They can’t really fight back, and they’re ….you know…brown. That’s close enough to black for those lily whites who put on Uncle Sam hats and attended Glen Beck’s rally yesterday in Washington…..a rally that managed to desecrate the memory of Martin Luther King and embarrass a few republicans. No mean feat that. Just another chance for pissed off white people to commiserate under the banner of god and country. Any crowd that allows itself to be whipped into a frenzy by Sarah Palin is bound to be the type that keeps other nations laughing at us. The entire spectacle makes my head feel like it weighs 50 pounds. As the song goes, “someday we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny”, and I can only hope that day comes before I die because I need a good laugh right now more than ever.

Why is everybody so mad at the wrong people all the time? I’ll admit to being a pissed off white guy too. But my fury ain’t directed at the quiet hispanic guy on the landscaping crew down the road….or the single black lady across the street desperately trying to care for her 3 children, or the lesbian couple around the corner. I want the guys who stole my 401k. The guys who force me to work more hours than they’ll pay me for. The guy who writes that small print on credit card applications. I’ve got investment bankers and oil executives and professional Washingtonians and insurance companies and guys who tailgate and corporations who ship jobs overseas in my sights. Let’s have a rally against them in DC. And invite everybody this time….not just those who think god is a republican.

I’m trying to keep my wits while all around me is madness. This record I’m trying to make is about the quiet dignity of one man who is no longer with us. The one man I could talk to who could sum up the madness and put it into perspective….and gently nudge me back onto the path I should never have deviated from in the first place. I fear failing with these songs so much I’m having a hard time letting them go. But I will. I know I will. Soon. I need to sit down in front of the mics and let it come out.

I miss him so.

In a bit…

–tf

Starts tomorrow night. Have a producer this time….so I can argue with somebody other than myself.

We’ll run down the songs and see what’s what. Have ten songs that I hope will make the cut. These are for Pop. I hope he approves.

In a bit…

–tf

Fresh off my visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame, I’ve recently read a slew of baseball books. Bios of Pete Rose (dickhead), Roger Clemens (dickhead), Joe Dimaggio (supreme dickhead), and Roberto Clemente (non-dickhead, although he had his moments). Also great books on college baseball, the wild 1908 baseball season, and the wonderfully titled “Pitching Around Fidel”, a book about sports in Cuba. Suffered through a book about Tony Larussa and how much of a baseball genius he’s supposed to be….and it was an abomination. 300+ pages of verbal fellatio from a hired hack. Give me a team with Albert Pujols and I could win more games than I lose…..and not be such a self-centered prick in the process. Larussa is a baseball cyborg, about as fan-friendly as bird-shit in the bleachers. The book reminded me anew why I always root against Saint Louis no matter who they’re playing.

The book about Cuba was fascinating. A great sports country….filled with amatuers ’cause Castro forbids professional athletes. Somehow they continue to provide some of the greatest baseball players and boxers in the world….all who tout the party line relentlessly then climb into rickety boats in the middle of the night and row like hell to Miami. Some make it. Most don’t……battered by the sea and eventually rescued or eaten by sharks. Those who do manage to defect are immediately rolled in front of the press by the Miami Cuban community and tell the world what a monster Castro is before being whisked away by limo to start spending George Steinbrenner’s money. Meanwhile, Cuba is suddenly saying that the guy who was an island legend the day before is really a sore-armed pampered pussy who couldn’t win a big game if his life depended on it and was barely worth the $10 monthly stipend Castro’s government thoughtfully paid him. It’s a very interesting dance. Great 3am reading.

On the listening front, been devouring the new double CD by the Grip Weeds…..a glorious collection of power pop without a duff track on it. Awaiting new releases by Richard Thompson and Ryan Bingham and The Weepies and a bunch of others. Musicians must time recordings for when their kids go back to school. Lots of new stuff coming out so I’ve got an itchy Ipod trigger finger.

Still tinkering with my new songs. Made some real progress last night on a song called “Don’t Let the Sun Hit You on the Way Out”. Melody just sorta leaped out of the air and I grabbed it. Found a good middle eight for it too. So the work continues. It just seems these songs will be ready on their timetable, not mine. Have asked my friend Eddie Appnel to produce the new record and he has agreed. It’s good to have somebody rational involved with one of my schemes for a change. Working alone can turn one mighty lazy. Eddie asked for demos of the songs but I’m afraid if I record them I’ll just release the demos…..fearful that I won’t be able to do any better. So Edward has his work cut out for him in many ways.

But he’s a way nicer guy than I am, so it should be a pleasure. We’ll start recording in the upcoming weeks.

So there.

In a bit..

–tf

It’s still only early August. ‘Tis the summer that won’t let go. If fall doesn’t arrive soon I may go searching for it. Heat saps my strength and makes me sluggish. Autumn reinvigorates. I need a healthy dose of Brent Musburger and Kirk Herbstreit. I need the ghost of Keith Jackson.

In a bit…

–tf