Long ago and far away, me with a cheap Vietnamese guitar, so poorly made the frets had to be filed down to avoid slicing one's fingers. Someday I'll recount how I acquired and lost a Gibson Humming Bird. while there.
Duncan and Brady
Well it's twinkle, twinkle, little star
Along came Brady in his 'lectric car
He's got a mean look right in his eye
He's gonna shoot somebody just to see 'em die
Refrain:He's been on the job too long
Well, Duncan, Duncan was tending the bar
Along comes Brady with his shining star
And Brady says, "Duncan, you're under arrest,"
Then Duncan shot a hole right in Brady's chest
Brady, Brady, Brady, well you know you done wrong
Breakin' in my store while the games goin' on
You come a kicking out the windows, knockin' down the door
And now you're lyin' dead on the barroom floor
Brady, Brady had a .45
Swore it would shoot for half a mile
Duncan, Duncan had a .44
And that’s what laid King Brady low.
Well, ol' King Brady was a big fat man
The Doctor reached down, grabbed a hold of his hand
He felt for his pulse, then shook his head
Said I believe to my soul, King Brady's dead
When the women all heard that King Brady was dead
They went out a home and they re-ragged in red
They come a-slipping' and a-slidin' and shufflin' down the street
In their big mother hubbards and their stockin' feet
High tail carriages just a -tandin' around
To carry King Brady to the buryin' ground
Them rubber tired carriages, them rubber tired hacks
They took him to the graveyard, never brung him back
Mama, Mama I hear a strange sound
A-hollerin and screamin’ from down in the ground
Chil, my Chil don’t you have no fear,
It’s the devil and he’s shoutin “I got Brady down here!
Here’s a version by Nathan Rogers that is fairly close to how I used to play it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtxW6mDi62U&feature=related
Gut bucket blues evolved out of jug band music. The term reminds me of men with gravelly voices like Louis Armstrong and women with voices like Judy Henske, voices suggestive of too much whiskey, too much nicotine, and a life time spent playing music after dark in places with chicken wire to protect the performers from hurled bottles, before landing a stroke of luck and making it into the world or recording studios, stages not between the men’s and women’s rest rooms, and a decent PA system that doesn’t require every song to be screamed like Jay Hawkins or Janice with a load of Southern Comfort numbing her vocal cords but not the pain.
Dave Van Ronk had a great voice for this type of music. Like many musicians, his method of earning his bread was not conducive to good health. Dave died in 2002, only a short time after being diagnosed with colon cancer. Anyone enjoying blues should make an effort to track down and listen to his large recorded legacy. After his death, In 2004 a section of Sheridan Square, where Barrow Street meets Washington Place, was renamed Dave Van Ronk Street in his memory. NYC was always his home. His memoirs, completed after his death by a friend, are titled The Mayor Of MacDougal Street
Among other errands, today we made it to the library. I came away with quite a haul,including, suggested by friends: The Jew Store and Ridley Walker. Also Leonard Cohen’s Beautiful Losers, John Barth’s Giles Goat-boy –first read while in junior high.
My sister, Suzanne, started my morning off with a huge laugh. She apparently found a video produced by out of work muppets. It’s a horrible thing when puppets run amok but the results can be hysterical.
So chase any children from the room, and enjoy this bootleg muppet track.
Thanks, Suz!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KYQj0-Is98
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