Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The puppets!
lifesize replicas
of lifesize replicas

the voice behind
in sounds imagined
larger than sound

the beat's quickening
a melted toast n'jam
a dylan.com paradigm

if you hipped the hop
i hipped today, you'd know
that dylan is sublime

amber ambience

I worship at the john prine shrine too

I am an old woman named after my mother
My old man is another child that’s grown old
If dreams were lightning thunder was desire
This old house would have burnt down a long time ago

Chorus:
Make me an angel that flies from montgom’ry
Make me a poster of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing that I can hold on to
To believe in this living is just a hard way to go

When I was a young girl well, I had me a cowboy
He weren’t much to look at, just free rambling man
But that was a long time and no matter how I try
The years just flow by like a broken down dam.

Repeat chorus:

There’s flies in the kitchen I can hear ’em there buzzing
And I ain’t done nothing since I woke up today.
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say.

puppet
strung like a banjo tsunami
or a ruptured hurricane
distinct as a blue norther
and a maxed out card
there is a place in my back
where you can put your hand in
and operate me
like a manic mannequin

workin' onna saturday jam
hangin' over morning-after jam
workin' witha hangover jam
gotta sell the furniture
for the man
but the man in my jam
needs the community's suport
gotta suck it in, tough it out
work twice as hard
to take care of the city's trasures
they provide us an unearthly pleasure
of sacred community beehives.

I've been singing this song compulsively
make me an angel
Bonnie Rhait and John Prine in his prime
flies from Montgomery

flies in the buttermilk
a crystal bell
it's a had way to go

snowman told a lie
and that carrot nose
is growin' as he steps
into a bowl of good n plenty...............

generations of angels have
taken residence in the minds of our
ancestors, their wings marking time,
their halos refracting moonbeam ideas.

they are life-sized replicas of souls
split into an alternate space.
their faces beckon
wisdom and memory.

generations of angels do not
engage in puppetry. nothing is
staged, but they do rehearse
day and night, their voices becoming
our mantras, our muse

I am a snow angel.
I lie in depths of ice,
spread my arms to wave them up,
down, up down, my body warmth
melting winter chill, wings making
way for crocus blossoms.

the african played
sticks and hollow log
in an arcade new years' eve
beat rythms from god
with human instinct
and said,
"they were playin these
sticks and log
twenty five thousand years ago
and they'll be playing them
twenty five thousand years from now."

somethings you never wanna forget.
a supreme reminder of
where we came from and
where we are going.

they was jammin a long time ago
this is an ancient ritual.
sticks and logs
circle of drummerz
and snow angels.

we stand on the shoulders of
generation after generation,
feet bare, steady on the clavicles,
one on top of the next, frozen in our own
time, and soon we melt back down
into the generation below, becoming
history or legend, for future children's
feet to stand up upon.

before I invented fire
I didn't have two sticks to rub together
But Edison was on my shoulder
and I had dreams of a nuclear program

I thumped my drum and drew
right there on the cavern walls
sagas of caribou and gazelle
I wait to rape the moon with my rockets

is growin' as he steps
into a bowl of good n plenty...............

"Said Jack to Running Elk, I'll gamble all my precious stones
Before I leave my body here among these bleaching bones
But now my time is drawing near and I'm filled with dark regret
My spirit longs to journey as the sun begins to set

For we raped and killed, we stole your land, we ruled with guns and knives
Fed whiskey to your warriors while we stole away your wives
Said Running Elk, what's done is done, you white men rule this land
So lay the cards face up and play your last broken-hearted hand"

it ain't just us
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Jerry played this with Peter Rowan in Old And In The Way.

Chorus
Oh, the wind blows cold
On the trail of the buffalo
Oh, the wind blows cold
In the land of the Navajo
In the land of the Navajo

A hundred miles from nowhere out on the desert sand
One-eyed Jack, the trader, held some torquoise in his hand
By his side sat Running Elk, his long-time Indian friend
He vowed that he would stay by Jack until the bitter end

Jack had gambled everything he owned to lead this wandering life
He might have had a happy home and a tender loving wife
But his hunger was for trading trapper's furs for torquoise stone
Anything that the Indians had, Jack wanted for his own

[chorus]

Said Jack to Running Elk, I'll gamble all my precious stones
Before I leave my body here among these bleaching bones
But now my time is drawing near and I'm filled with dark regret
My spirit longs to journey as the sun begins to set

For we raped and killed, we stole your land, we ruled with guns and knives
Fed whiskey to your warriors while we stole away your wives
Said Running Elk, what's done is done, you white men rule this land
So lay the cards face up and play your last broken-hearted hand

[chorus]

When you're dealing cards with death, the joker's wild, the ace is high
Jack bid the Mississippi River, Running Elk raised him the sky
Jack saw him with the sun and moon and upped him with the stars
Running Elk bet the Rocky Mountains, Jupiter, and Mars

The sun was sinking in the west when Jack drew the ace of spades
Running Elk just rolled his eyes, he smiled and passed away
Jack picked up his torquoise stones and cast them to the sky
He stared into the setting sun and then made a mournful cry

[chorus]
In the land of the Navajo

Recordings

8 Oct 1973 Old And In The Way


Peter Rowan recorded this on "Peter Rowan" in 1978.



Futher Information
For more information on recordings see Matt Schofield's Grateful Dead Family Discography
For online chords and TAB see www.rukind.com

fly on my sweet angel, doll by carole jean............

I hear the ancient drumbeat of
a circle rite, rocks on tin, sticks thumping
ritual, rain making crescendo echoes,
a Thunder God worshiped.

In the center there is a fire.
Inside the fire blue eyes scold,
orange wise memory unfolds,
laps yellow white truths
to lick a velvet sky.

I become one with the supreme
reminder of ancestory, decorate
my skin with vivid paint and feathers,
dance until dawn, chanting the
wordsongs I had never remembered.