Winter speaks
During my co-op in Boston, oh around December 1999, I learned to play the guitar. My guitar instructor lived/worked a block from where I lived on Comm. Ave. between B.U. and B.C. He produced a few albums for some of his friends, and one of them was this folk artist Joel Cage [Listen to some of his work here. Cage was playing at Club Passim in Harvard Square, and because I "was with the band," or at least with the producer and sound tech for the show I got to go and see Cage for free. It was a great concert, Cage is a very good live performer and I was blown away. Especially his song Winter, which so eloquently captures the distance and emptiness of a winter's night, blanketed with snow.
Joel Cage - Winter:
The leftover takeout that collects at my feet
is all that remembers the clandestine retreat.
My exhaust fumes are drifting away down the street.
The stores are all empty. The roads are unfettered and clear.
Winter is here.
An ice veil is forming on the hood of my car.
It shines in the morning and it echoes the stars.
it comes without warning and it knows who you are.
It swarms down around you and engulfs you if all of it's fear.
Winter is here.
I hold this guitar like a gun, taking aim at
every warm body protecting a place
in a united space. A sea of blank faces.
And out of the crowd comes a voice talking louder than
all of the others, blowing my cover,
calling me over and then I discover it's you...
just you.
Behind the laughter of the children at play
is life ever-after, is the end of the day....
the dreams that get broken by the words that you say.
From the distance between comes a voice that's incredibly clear
says winter is here.
The leftover takeout that collects at my feet
is all that remembers the clandestine retreat.
My exhaust fumes are drifting away down the street.
The stores are all empty. The roads are unfettered and clear.
Winter is here.
An ice veil is forming on the hood of my car.
It shines in the morning and it echoes the stars.
it comes without warning and it knows who you are.
It swarms down around you and engulfs you if all of it's fear.
Winter is here.
I hold this guitar like a gun, taking aim at
every warm body protecting a place
in a united space. A sea of blank faces.
And out of the crowd comes a voice talking louder than
all of the others, blowing my cover,
calling me over and then I discover it's you...
just you.
Behind the laughter of the children at play
is life ever-after, is the end of the day....
the dreams that get broken by the words that you say.
From the distance between comes a voice that's incredibly clear
says winter is here.
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This is the permanent home of Winter speaks. I wrote this post at 17:16 on November 27, 2002. This post is part of grubbykid.com, a weblog. If you liked this entry, why don't you read some other posts such as Marinas Twin Towers or I need one of these EDM's? Or you could go to the site archives or return home. All are good choices.
