The collected writings of Bob Giddings

No Fool Like An Old Fool

5 June 2005

     "Sumer is i-cumin in -
        Lhude sing, cuccu!
     Groweth sed and bloweth med
     And springth the wude nu.
        Sing, cuccu!"

            --The Cuckoo Song, popular Country Music ~ 1300 A.D.

Nicola Lake, BC
Sunday morning

There's no fool like an old fool.

If you've been reading here long, you may have grasped that fact. I've been writing songs this spring. It all started because I wanted to encourage Sean to spend time on his music. Graduate school may be good for you, but sometimes it gets to be too much like work to be fun. Ya got to remember to have fun. It's an odd duck that looks back over a long life and says "Gee, I wish I hadn't had so much fun." In the process of encouraging Sean, I discovered I was having fun myself.

Fun is like fruit. The best is fresh and local. But sometimes it travels reasonably well. It's a long way to Alaska. Stuck in the truck all these miles, I've started making up songs to the music I'm listening to. Most of it is not memorable. I've forgotten it already. Every now and then I hit on something I like.

So what's this got to do with you?

Maybe nothing. But sometime in my middle fifties I started to misplace my personal humility. Now it seems to be gone altogether. It may still be around here somewhere, but I can't find it. It first turned up missing about the time I realized that instead of counting up the years, I was beginning to count them down. I was coming face to face with the Great Humility. You know the one. Nothing personal, and it happens to everyone. Much of what you formerly thought serious begins to look foolish in the face of the Great Humility.

But the upside is that when the Great Humility comes to town, most all of the little ones pack up their bags and scoot.

It can be liberating. So what if I take a notion to drive to Alaska? So what if I want to write a few songs? Or an Opera, for that matter? What have I got to lose?

There's no fool like an old fool.

To start with, I decided to write just one song I like, in every genre I can think of. That ought to keep me busy. So far there's been pop, rock, blues, reggae... even rap, for God's sake.

Which brings us to Country. Country is hard.

Oh, it's easy to write badly. Most people do. There's so much of that, it's painful to listen to the radio - a swamp of poor writing, simple-minded and borrowed emotions, witless music. It's like TV. Lots and lots of hours to fill, and no more talent than there ever was. After a bit, you begin to look forward to someone trying to sell you siding.

Country is hard. It's too simple. It's dance music, mostly, usually some variation on a waltz or a two-step. When the music is that simple, only the writing can make it memorable. That's a burden. All the really good rhymes have been taken, dammit. Like drinking and thinking, blue and you, yearning and burning. What's a guy to do?

Well, you can put up. Or shut up. Or go throw rocks in Nicola Lake.

I threw rocks for a while. Country is hard.

Then just when I was contemplating doing something really foolish, like going for a swim, I remembered an RV-related songfest I once got involved in on the newsgroup. There was even talk of a band, before cooler heads prevailed.

Hey, maybe I already wrote a country song. Maybe I can just take a quick rag and a swipe to that thing, if I can find it, and then move right on to the Opera.

What have I got to lose?

Well, there's self respect, of course. But, my God, I haven't seen that stuff since I started counting down the years.

Here y'go, folks. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. You'll get the hang of it. Remember to have fun.

-------------------------------------------

A Red-Headed Woman

I sat there in the driveway of my neighbor,
Until I got my maps all in a row.
Then I went and threw'em in the dumpster.
Ain't no maps of where I got to go.

     She was a red-headed woman. She was a sight to see.
     I let a red-headed woman get the best of me.
     I'm lookin' out the windshield, hoping for a shiny day.
     But I've got a ways to go before I get away.

Sunrise in the desert sure is lonesome.
I didn't get that far, but it's a start.
Maybe I'll stay out here on my own some.
Takes a lot of room to ease a heart.

     She was a red-headed woman. She was a sight to see.
     I let a red-headed woman get the best of me.
     I'm lookin' out the windshield, hoping for a shiny day.
     But I've got a ways to go before I get away.

Could be I'll break down along this highway.
Ain't no use in phonin' home the news.
I don't believe she'll ever travel my way.
Or give a durn about broke-down-trailer blues.

     She was a red-headed woman. She was a sight to see.
     I let a red-headed woman get the best of me.
     I'm lookin' out the windshield, hoping for a shiny day.
     But I've got a ways to go before I get away.

I may have lost my mind, but saved the trailer,
When I told my baby my goodbyes.
A red-headed woman in the rear-view
Cuts all your troubles down to size.

     She was a red-headed woman. She was a sight to see.
     I let a red-headed woman get the best of me.
     I'm lookin' out the windshield, hoping for a shiny day.
     But I've got a ways to go before I get away.

How many chords is that? :o)

Bob,
who thinks Opera is going to take a while. Unless it's Grand. And Old.

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