1. |
I'm a Treeplanter
04:09
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I'm a Treeplanter
I'm an old treeplanter from a long time ago. I worked way out West and in North Ontario. And I'm going gray. I'm growing old. But I'm still strong down to my wooden bones. I'm a treeplanter from a long time ago.
When I was young I was a wayward son. I'm not proud of everything I ever done. Then that summer I joined a planting crew. Now I walk straight and my heart is true. 'Cos I'm a treeplanter through and through.
We were punkers and students, artists and criminals, lovers and farmers, lesbians and liberals, bizknobs and streetniks, anarchist intellectuals. We were treeplanters down to our wooden bones. We were treeplanters such a long time ago. There's something about working with your hands in the earth that makes you realize what life is worth.
I walk these familiar streets but I don't feel at home. And every Spring I get itchy feet. My mind it starts to roam to the burn site, the slash piles, the mud the dirt and stones and all those fine people that I used to know.
And there's something about working with your hands in the earth that makes you realize what life is worth. And when my eyes grow dim, when they lose their shine, bury me with my shovel in the Norway pines 'cos I'm a treeplanter, oh I'm a treeplanter. I'll be a treeplanter until the end of time.
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2. |
Chickenheart
04:20
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Chickenheart
There's a thorn in my paw. I have lost my courage. I come on like a lion, like a lamb I leave discouraged. Your new man treats you rotten. He's the 5th one in a row. I think you should drop him girl, you say there are things that I don't know.
Seasons pass, love don't last. Questions unasked remain unanswered. It's so absurd, I got such a big mouth I'm at a loss for words. I'm a chickenheart, such a big chickenheart.
Once you filled my heart. You filled it with air. Then it blew apart. Now I never go there. I stand like some scarecrow and watch as you get ravaged. Your old world soul can't get its feet in a modern world so savage.
Seasons pass, love don't last. Questions unasked remain unanswered. It's so absurd, I got such a big mouth I'm at a loss for words. I'm a chickenheart, such a big chickenheart.
There's a no exit sign on the yellow brick road. There's a crock of shit at the end of the rainbow. All the fairy tales end unhappily ever after. The best laid plans always end in disaster. Your enemy feeds and clothes you when your lover treats you wrong. There's something I want to say to you. It's all wrapped up in this song.
Seasons pass, love don't last. Questions unasked remain unanswered. It's so absurd, I got such a big mouth I'm at a loss for words. I'm a chickenheart, such a big chickenheart.
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3. |
Autopsy
01:19
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Autopsy
At my autopsy, the doctor will take my heart from my chest, gasp, and hold it below the big white light to inspect. He will wonder aloud how such a bruised and battered thing could have kept beating for so long. He won’t throw it away though, with the rest of my innards, he’ll keep it for his collection. At a dinner party of his peers, he’ll hold it aloft and intone, “here friends is the shrunken, scarred heart of a sucker. May none of us ever be so afflicted.” All the people in the room will nod, clink their glasses, down their drinks, and then return to talking about whatever it is that doctors and their ilk talk about.
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4. |
Backporch
02:36
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Backporch
Sittin’ on my backporch playin’ my guitar, just sittin’ on my backporch playin’ my guitar. All the neighbours come around and they listen from their backyards.
All the birds in the trees and the honeybees, all the kids on the street just a slappin’ their knees as I sit on the backporch playin’ my guitar. Got a hammock over there just in case I get tired.
Sometimes I wish that I was unemployed. Sometimes I wish that I was unemployed. All play, no work, that makes me a happy boy.
I said all play no work would make me a happy boy. All play, no work, would make me a happy boy. Don’t mind me, I’m just a-playin’ with my toys.
Come around 7 and bring your mandolin. Come around 7 and bring your mandolin. We’re gonna have a good time so bring all your friends. We’re gonna have a good time so bring all your friends. We’re gonna have a good time so bring all your friends.
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5. |
Part Time
03:55
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Part Time
Part-time always tears me apart. Part-time is for those with half a heart. Have a heart. Are you heavy with love? Are you heavy, are you heavy with love?
In those darkened rooms so hungry. We fumble through the moves for something half empty. Are you ready for love? Are you ready, are you ready for love?
Part-time always tears me apart. Part-time is for those with half a heart. Have a heart. Are you heavy with love? Are you heavy, are you heavy with love?
And in the light of day we are waiting. Toys in every room but no children playing. Are you ready for love? Are you ready, are you ready for love?
Part-time always tears me apart. Part-time is for those with half a heart. Have a heart. Are you heavy with love? Are you heavy, are you heavy with love?
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6. |
The Outcasts
04:17
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The Outcasts
Here on the dark side. On the wrong side of the street. Oh my campadres, we can never go back, never never go back. All of the mongrels snarl, and the children cry out. All of the wise old ones hide their eyes as we slink and swagger past.
We can never go back. We can never go back. We can never go back to those golden days because we have changed.
All of the plants shrink back like paper from a flame, and in the underbrush the creatures shriek and scatter half insane. Like lightning to a metal rod, trouble seeks our frames. We can’t escape what we have done and nothing will ever be the same.
We can never go back. We can never go back. We can never go back to those golden days
because we have changed.
They can taste it on our fetid breath and it’s written upon our faces. They can see it in the way we walk, in the way we mutter, the way we pace that we are the outcasts, denied contact. The only company that we can keep are other outcasts like you and me.
We can never go back. We can never go back. We can never go back to those golden days
because we have changed.
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7. |
Tonight
04:03
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Tonight
There’s a singin’ in the pines, tonight, singin’ in the pines, ‘tis a portent of troubled times.
There’s a young man on the road, tonight, young man on the road, ‘tis a young man that’ll never grow old. You can run but you cannot hide.
Theres’ a black cloud on the hill, tonight, black cloud on the hill. It casts a shadow upon the wall of my will. You can run but you cannot hide. You don’t know when lightning will strike.
There are ashes on the wind, tonight, ashes on the wind. I wish I could here your laughter again. There’s a turnin’ in my heart, tonight, turnin’ in my heart, as you turn and walk into that dark. You can run but you cannot hide. You don’t know when lightning will strike. You can run but you cannot hide. You don’t know when lightning will strike.
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8. |
Balls
00:20
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Balls
the guy on the motorcycle
with the tattoos
plainly has his balls hanging out
of his jean shorts
everybody notices
nobody says anything
balls
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9. |
Menhir's Lament
05:05
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Menhir's Lament
Worked upon by wind and water, shaped by nature's hand. I am worn, chipped and weathered. I sit strange upon this land. Once there were words arranged in verses, prayer, poetry and song. The men they danced around the fire. Women beat upon their drums.
I'm still standing here after all of them have gone. So long… so long…
The sun arrives from that direction then departs in the other. The stars spin 'round oh so slowly. I have known them forever. The people they come by the 2's by the 1000's, some to pray, some to measure me. Some make love. Some they murder. Some just stare at me in wonder.
I'm still standing here after everyone has gone. Why am I standing here? I've been standing here so long. So long… so long…
Wielding swords, firing cannons, dressed in rags, dressed in armour. Opposing armies attack and counter. Ages pass like waves of water over me. Why am I here? How will this unfold? There was a reason (no-one now remembers) for why I'm standing here at all.
Why am I standing here after everyone has gone? I'm still standing here. I've been standing here so long. So long… so long…
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10. |
Life Is...
03:12
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Life Is…
Life is a highway like the 401. It's a game of chicken on the Autobahn. Put a round in the chamber, put your blindfold on. Forget about the brakes. Just give 'er the gun. Life is a highway like the 401.
Life is a trip and it's all uphill. Careful don't slip now Jack and Jill or you'll need a dozen stitches and a handful of pills just to recover from the doctor's bill. Life is a trip and it's all uphill.
Life is like nothin'. It is what it is. It's a damn site better than the alternative. It's a cold hard scrabble. It's the greatest gift. I'm so glad that I exist. I'm so glad that I exist.
Life is a song. It's a funeral dirge down in the boneyard by the burnt out church. You do the Loosey Goosey and the Lunge and the Lurch, dig yourself a hole, shovel in the dirt. Life is a song. It's a funeral dirge.
Life is a breeze like a hurricane. It'll shiver yer timbers and shudder yer frame, whip you one way, spin you 'round again, take all that is dear and blow it all away. Life is a breeze - it's a hurricane.
Life is like nothing. It is what it is. You sally on forth and plead the fifth. It's a silly metaphor that reads like myth. I'm so glad that I exist. I'm so glad that I exist.
It's a velvet glove on a granite fist. It's a mime show featuring a ventriloquist. It's a huge iceberg concealed by mist and the band plays on as we go down with the ship. It doesn't get any better than this, so come a little closer and give me a kiss.
Life is like nothin'. It is what it is. It's a damn site better than the alternative. It's a cold hard scrabble. It's the greatest gift. I'm so glad that I exist. And I'm so glad that you exist. Hell, I'm so glad we all exist. Life is exactly what it is.
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11. |
Laid Bare
04:37
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Laid Bare
The corn retreats from the shade of the maple. The shape of the branches repeats in the roots in the soil. The song of the whippoorwill and the red-wing blackbird is broken by the coughing call of the bluejay on the windowsill. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee.
I was small against the grandeur of the stars in late autumn. I held a galaxy of crystals in a handful of sand. I danced in a trance dance to the aurora borealis, embraced earthly circumstances, this precious gift I have been granted. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee.
I loved you in your sadness, knew the rhythms of your madness. I held you in the darkness, tried to fill your emptiness. As we smash at the forms our mothers and fathers made we assume their shapes and make a child full of magic and grace. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee.
The veins in my flesh reflect in the leaf. The stones upon the shore are a mouthful of my teeth. The grasses bend and sway like your hair in the wind. We become the world about us become the world within. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee.
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12. |
Recall
01:47
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Recall
The company sent me a notice of a factory recall on my brain. It seems my model had difficulty navigating rough terrain. It had a tendency to go insane, thought too much and overheated, blew gaskets, spit out sprockets and was generally fucked.
They said, “bring yourself down to the shop and our trained professionals will fix you up. It’ll only take about an hour, a matter of soldering a couple wires.” So I packed me a lunch and a magazine, took me a bus to the factory. They put me under with really good drugs. When I awoke, I was completely un-fucked.
Now I’m light as a feather. I only talk about the weather. And nothing really matters to me, to me. Nothing really matters to me.
Now I don’t worry about society, morality or the stuff in the air we breathe. I cancelled my subscription to the Utne Reader. If it weren’t for the bible, I wouldn’t read at all. I work all week to earn a paycheque, blow it in a day at the shopping mall, spend my free time in front of the tube ‘cos i can’t think of anything else to do.
So if you find yourself depressed due to your heightened consciousness, troubled by the degree of control exercised by your government, and you’re frustrated in your pursuit of truth, question belief and require proof, then you’re obviously broken and should be fixed before you do something dangerous.
You’ll feel light as a feather. You’ll only talk about the weather. You’ll be happy being stupid like me, like me. You’ll be happy being stupid like me.
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13. |
$100 From Home
03:54
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$100 From Home
There I was at my destination, downtown Van bus station, $100 from home. I was never so happy to be alone. I could give you all my reasons for leaving: heart full of weeds, barely breathing, head so cluttered and overgrown, a beaten up copy of On the Road.
Well I lived for awhile on the welfare line, ate KD and drank cheap wine, had plenty of time to mess up my mind, so I drew pictures and wrote my lines $100 from home.
It was me and Tim and a female hero, lost and profound underground zeroes, bleak and battered, beaten down. It was Nirvana's Bleach and the Seattle sound. At the Classical Joint I met this girl. She was suicidal, at odds with the world, so I took her hand and walked her home. We made love to the Rolling Stones.
Well I lived for awhile on the welfare line, ate KD and drank cheap wine, had plenty of time to mess up my mind, so I drew pictures and wrote my lines $100 from home.
I grew tired of living hand to mouth and sleeping in my clothes on a stranger's couch. I'd laughed and loved and logged all my miles. I was a bag of bones with a crooked smile. I cashed my cheque for a hundred bucks, bought a one way ticket on the Greyhound bus, I watched this country roll on past like a silent movie in the tinted glass. Past the hunchback mountains of Roger's Pass, then the foothills, and 2 days of flat, then the rocks and trees and lakes of the Canadian Shield, then home sweet home sweet farmer's fields.
Well I lived for awhile on the welfare line, ate KD and drank cheap wine, had plenty of time to mess up my mind, so I drew pictures and wrote my lines $100 from home.
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Scott Wicken Waterloo, Ontario
Scott Wicken is a singer/songwriter/musician/spoken word artist/poet based in Waterloo, Ontario. He's been part of the artistic/musical communities in Vancouver, Yellowknife, Edmonton and has performed in bars, cafes, art galleries and festivals across Canada. His work pays special attention to the lyric. Currently, he is a member of City'N'Eastern, an acoustic trio of original music. ... more
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