Having a Little Fun

October 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

Tomorrow, I leave a job I’ve had for just over a year. A couple of days ago, I started thinking about that last day, and suddenly, I felt a song coming on. While it is a bit tongue in cheek, I think the title says it all. Enjoy!

I Don’t Want to Work No More

I don’t want to work no more
I just want to sit down by the ocean shore
With my toes in the sand
A beer in my hand
Listening to the roar of the waves
I could win the lottery
Then I’d be truly free
But I don’t want to work no more

I don’t want to get out of bed
I just want to lay here and relax instead
Not walking the streets
Just here ‘tween the sheets
Sleeping, with a head full of dreams
I could live a life of ease
Just doing as I please
But I don’t want to get out of bed

(harmonica solo)

I can stand to lend a hand
Every now and then
But don’t rely on my reply
If the need arises again

I don’t want to work no more
Rest and relaxation’s what I’m living for
A leisurely man
At least that’s the plan
And hoping for more of the same
If opportunity should knock
I guess I’ll punch the clock
But I don’t want to work no more

I don’t want to work no more
(That’s what I’m talking ’bout)
I don’t want to work no more
(Someone bring me another beer)
Oh, I don’t want to work no more

(harmonica close)

Got to go, I’m running late

 

© 2014 Walt Huntsman. All rights reserved.

Sometimes the Darndest Things

October 27, 2014 § Leave a comment

Sometimes it’s amazing where inspiration comes from, what will trigger a writing outburst. The other day at breakfast my wife mentioned some saying she remembered from the tag on a teabag. I don’t remember what in the preceding conversation led her to mention the teabag, but I do know what came of that seed. Here it is.

Somewhere in Her Head

She found her wisdom from a tea bag
Got her fashion from the clearance rack
Down at the local second-hand thrift store

Had a small one-room apartment
With a hide-a-bed, a single chair
And a Virgin Mary statue on the floor

Late at night, she’d lay in bed
And dream of far-off lands
Each day, she would talk of things
No one could understand
Though they questioned everything she said
It all made perfect sense
Somewhere in her head

She had a job down at the mission
Serving hot meals to the down and outers
And druggies living on the street

Though she often wished that she
Were somewhere else, she always had
A kind word for the downcast souls that she would meet

Late at night, she’d dream of life
On some exotic beach
Of finding love that always seemed
Somewhere beyond her reach
Put herself in every book she read
Living out a hundred livesSomewhere in her head

They say imagination is a powerful thing
Can make the spirit soar or cause the heart to sing
But fantasy can lock you up inside
Cause the heart to hide
Until your dream have died
Kept from happening

She always read the fortune from
The cookie that she got with Chinese take-out
Each and every Friday without fail

She always sent back all the contest entries
Stating she may have already won
The only things in each day’s mail

Late at night, she’d lose herself
In films from long ago
And she would picture herself
As Dietrich or Monroe}
Being waited on, breakfast in bedShe had the perfect life
Somewhere in her head

© 2014 Walt Huntsman. All rights reserved.

Why I Write

October 21, 2014 § Leave a comment

Chances are I will never sell any of the lyrics I write or record a hit record. After all, how many 58-year old overnight sensations do you know? Still I write, knowing it is likely few will ever read my lyrics and fewer still will ever sing my songs. So why do I put myself through that? Because it is a part of me, as much a part of me as breathing.

I’ve stopped writing a few times, going as long as a few years without putting pen to paper., but I never truly left it. I suppose a part of me still dreaming of finding success as a writer of some sort, but the main reason I write is because it has always been the way I best communicate. Although I consider myself fairly well-spoken, my communication skills truly shine when exercised through the written word. I also write because I can – and because I still have a voice. This song was born out of that knowledge.

Don’t I Have A Voice?

Don’t I have a voice?
I still have something left to say

I’m not asking for a choice
Just help me out of my own way

Sometimes I struggle
For the perfect turn of phrase
Though I know there is no such thing
I may work on  a line
For days on days on days
Like pushing uphill on a string

Don’t I have a voice?
Though no one else is there to hear?

Am I stuck with Hobson’s Choice
Take it or leave it out of fear

The words inside me
May not be all that refined
And yet, I put pen to the page
In hopes of leaving some
Immortal piece behind
Though I will never be the rage

(instrumental:)

Sometimes I struggle
For the perfect turn of phrase
Though I know there is no such thing
I may work on  a line
For days on days on days
Like pushing uphill on a string

Don’t I have a voice?
I still have something left to say

© 2014 Walt Huntsman. All rights reserved.

Who Is the Music For?

October 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

Last night, my wife and I had the chance to share some rare adult time (sans offspring). So we took the chance to visit a local brewpub for a bite and a little music. Our main reason for going was another chance to see an amazing local musician, Rebecca Scott, whom we had first seen perform a week earlier in an outdoor event featuring Idaho singer-songwriters.

While Rebecca’s performance did not disappoint, that of the patrons did, at least for me. First, she had to wait for the end of a football game being broadcast on the pub’s televisions, something she did patiently. Then, there were the typical bar conversations that float around a room while the band is on stage. Finally, there was what I guess was the bar’s dishwasher, clanging away in not quite perfect rhythm with the song being performed.

As the performance ended, the first seeds for these lyrics began sprouting in my head. With apologies to Rebecca Scott, I now lay them out there for the rest of you.

Across The Strings

She plays her heart out
For the three or four who hang on every word
As unwanted conversations fill the air

The same familiar faces
Picking them out from the thinning crowd
She is the reason they are even there

The fingers fly across the strings
And in that space the notes are everything –
The sum of all her fears
And hopes and dreams and sweat and tears
The words come from some secret space
Force her to give them some space
As if daring her not to sing

The room’s half empty
Most of those there seem as if they are somewhere else
Nowhere near where the music tries to lead

But still she’s playing
Pouring her soul into each and every note
With or without them, she still has the need

The fingers fly across the strings
And in that space the notes are everything –
The sum of all her fears
And hopes and dreams and sweat and tears
The words come from some secret space
Force her to give them some space
As if daring her not to sing

When the people all go home
She is up there all alone
The echo of the music in the air
In a moment of self-doubt
Catches herself looking out
Does it matter she was even there?

The fingers fly across the strings
And in that space the notes are everything –
The sum of all her fears
And hopes and dreams and sweat and tears
The words come from some secret space
Force her to give them some space
As if daring her not to sing

© 2014 Walt Huntsman. All rights reserved.

Feeling Prolific

October 14, 2014 § Leave a comment

I’ve been on a writing spree lately. Just yesterday, I finished up three sets of lyrics. This one-day proliferation was inspired by a Sunday afternoon outdoor concert featuring singer-songwriters from the Idaho Songwriters Association. One performance in particular, that of Rebecca Scott and Debbie Sager, who sang harmonies with Rebecca. That performance inspired the following lyrics, which go out to backup singers everywhere.

The Other Voice

She lives for Friday nights
Up there under the lights
Even though she’s not the one
They come to see

The music fills the room
Chases away the gloom
And for an hour or two
She’s truly free

Never meant to reach the heights
She sings a few bars here and there
Each Friday night
Perhaps if she had had the choice
She’d choose to be more than
The other voice

She waits there in the wings
Until she finally sings
A line or two
In two-part harmony

She’ll never be the star
She knows she won’t go far
Her name in lights
Was never meant to be

At night she writes songs
She will never sing
They’ll sit upon a shelf
And gather dust
One day she’ll take them down
And shed a tear
For the dream she had
Now turned to rust

Another Friday night
That’s when she’s feeling right
The closest she’ll get
To what might have been

And when the music’s done
No moment in the sun
But next week
She will do it all again

Never meant to reach the heights
She sings a few bars here and there
Each Friday night
Perhaps if she had had the choice
She’d choose to be more than
The other voice

But there was never any choice
For her to be more than
The other voice

© 2014 Walt Huntsman. All rights reserved.

The Roundabout Path of Inspiration

October 10, 2014 § Leave a comment

Even though I have been writing (lyrics, mostly) for several decades, I still marvel at how some of my ideas come to me and the path my imagination will take once the initial idea is born.

Take for instance the lyrics I am about to share. The initial inspiration came from a dream I had a few nights back about a friend and former colleague from my broadcasting days. While we were never romantically involved and, in fact, never dated, I don’t know of any songs about former co-workers. So my imagination took the initial seed of the dream and turned it into a lament over love lost years ago and only remembered now in dreams.

If I had to classify this, I guess I’d call it modern country.

(Last Night) I Dreamed About You

Last night, I dreamed about you
We were together again
Just like when we were younger
Doing all the things we did then
Laughing and holding hands
Talking and making plans
I still don’t understand
Why you had to go

Last night, I dreamed about you
You hadn’t changed at all
Just like when I first saw you
I couldn’t help but fall
Girl, you controlled my heart
Right from the very start
Then tore it all apart
When you had to go

Why does love sometimes hurt so much?
I shiver at the memory of your touch
Years later, I still can see your face
The thought of you
I can’t erase

(instrumental:)

Why does love sometimes hurt so much?
I shiver at the memory of your touch
Years later, I still can see your face
The thought of you
I can’t erase

Last night, I dreamed about you
We were together again
But in the morning when I woke
The dream came to an end
Guess I should say goodbye
I’ve no more tears to cry
But still I wonder why
You had to go

Guess I’ll never know . . .

© 2014 Walt Huntsman. All Rights Reserved.

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