Behind the Song: The Rocket

(by Fred Eaglesmith) Son, could you help me on this platform? I’m not so good at climbing stairs I brought me a drink and some sandwiches I want to just sit and watch the trains

I come down here almost every Sunday My grandkids, they used to come too Now they drop me off at the front gate I guess that they got better things to do

Number 47 she’s a good one Number 63 sings like a bird Number 29, that’s the one they call The Rocket Hey, that’s the saddest train I ever heard

Son, I’m decorated veteran I fought in what they called the Great War I used to believe in everything it stood for I don’t believe in much anymore

Number 47 she’s a good one Number 63 sings like a bird Number 29, that’s the one they call The Rocket Hey, that’s the saddest train I ever heard

Son, you look just like my boy He stood here almost 40 years today He looked so good in that brand new soldier’s uniform But that Rocket never brought him back again

Headaches and heartaches and all kinds of pain, these are the parts of the railroad train. Trains are one of the great metaphors writers use to shine the light on the far reaches of the human heart—to demonstrate the comings and goings of love. There are hundreds and hundreds of songs that use trains to tell the stories of the hearts’ travels, and “The Rocket” is one of the best.

It is written from the perspective of a man who has experienced a loss so devastating he cannot fully transcend his sorrow, so he has ritualized his grief in order to deal with it. He’s compelled to visit and re-visit the site where he last saw his son alive, the place where he sent him off to war 40 years prior—the eponymous train station. He is an old man now, bent over with regret, and he has lost most—if not all—of his faith.  His body is also failing him, he has trouble with the stairs, and is forced to ask strangers to help him make his way up and down the flights for his weekly pilgrimage.

The utter brilliance of this song lies in the fact that old man does not choose to visit his son’s grave on his weekly pilgrimage. Instead, he chooses to visit the departure site, the place where he sent the boy off to war. It’s as though he is engaging in a penance for his actions, trying to make some kind of atonement for what he believes he did. We also get the feeling that the old fellow sits and stares at the trains trying to understand the enormity of what’s transpired, hoping somehow that if he stares long enough and hard enough, he might change the ending of the story.

His grandkids drop him off at the station, but they don’t join him there to watch the trains anymore, he’s left on his own to talk to the strangers who help him navigate the stairs ( and the emotions). He is compelled to tell his story each time, perhaps finding comfort in the telling. The universal human reaction to tragedy, to grief, is the need to tell and re-tell our story, it helps us move through the sorrow. But this old man is trapped in his pain, and he cannot find his way out of the maze. He feels responsible for his son’s death, and as we witness his pain, we feel compassion for him.

Nationalism and patriotism carried to their ultimate conclusions have repercussions, and this man has paid a high price for his devoted love and defense of his country—suffering both the loss of his son, and the loss of his faith. We assume the man is an American, but this is not necessarily so. This man could be of any nationality, and the pain would be the same. This song captures the essence of disillusionment through the old mans voice, the voice of the old soldier. We see the high cost of war through his eyes. This is not a protest song, or a peace song. It does not instruct us emotionally, it does not tell us how to feel about what has transpired. It only tells the story of one old man’s grief ritual. We take from it what we will, and draw our own conclusions. This is a story song well written, and the brilliance of story songs well told is that we  write our own endings and thus personally connect with the universal truths they reveal.

When I was a child my family was dealt a devastating blow during the Vietnam War when my cousin Phillip was killed. I was far too young to have any true understanding of what had happened. I can only remember the adults telling the story of the soldiers pulling up to my aunt Dot’s house to tell her that her child was gone, and her profound emotional reaction to those soldiers at the front door. They spoke in whispers, but I heard them, and tried to take it all in.

My father served in Korea, but he did not ever talk about his years there. When we lost Phillip I could see in his eyes some of what he must had gone through when he was a soldier. His wartime experiences suddenly showed, the weights hung in his eyes revealed themselves, they were weights even a child could see.

In those cold hard months following Phillip’s funeral, my daddy didn’t talk much at all, which was very out of character for him. We’d go sit with my aunt, and just sit there—for hours. The adults drinking coffee, the kids playing in the back, quietly, knowing to keep it down. Feeling the sorrow too, in our child hearts.

My cousin’s picture, taken in his soldier’s uniform, hung framed in the living room of my aunt’s house, above the table next to the TV. Over the years, I’d stare at it when we’d go visit, trying to understand what it meant to be killed in a war in a foreign place, a place we had seen only on a map. I can still see that picture of him in my mind, though I have not laid eyes on it in 40 years. The young soldier, looking strong and brave at the camera, hair buzzed short, hat tilted slightly sideways on his head, a serious look.  Phillip’s death was my introduction to mortality. His loss had a profound effect on my family, and though I was too young to really understand, I still carry the weight of it. Perhaps we all carry similar experiences, memories of our introduction to mortality.

“The Rocket” captures an emotional universe. It speaks for millions through the eyes of a single old man. This song is a classic, and Fred Eaglesmith is one of the best songwriters writing songs today, writing songs that will endure the test of time.

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Behind The Song: I Drink

(by Mary Gauthier and Crit Harmon) He’d get home at 5:30, fix his drink And sit down in his chair Pick a fight with mama Complain about us kids getting in his hair At night he’d sit alone and smoke I’d see his frown behind his lighter’s flame Now that same frown’s in my mirror I got my daddy’s blood inside my veins

Fish swim birds fly Daddies yell mamas cry Old men sit and think I drink

Chicken TV dinner 6 minutes on defrost, 3 on high A beer to wash it down with Then another, a little whiskey on the side It’s not so bad alone here It don’t bother me that every night’s the same I don’t need another lover Hanging round, trying to make me change

Fish swim birds fly Lovers leave by and by Old men sit and think I drink

I know what I am But I don’t give a damn Fish swim birds fly Daddies yell mamas cry Old men sit and think I drink

I am often asked how I came to write this song. People wonder how in the word I came up with it. Well, as is so much of my work, this song is semi autobiographical. Not totally, in my mind the character in the song is male, but my experiences appear in there, for sure. Here’s a bit of my backstory, to set the context for the creation of this one.

I became an addict early on, and full on. I tend to think I was born this way. I have no memory of ever taking a "social" drink. I went to my first drug and alcohol treatment center when I was 15 years old, and spent my 16th birthday locked inside a place with an onerous name: The Baton Rouge Adolescent Chemical Dependency Unit. Yikes! What a way to spend my Sweet 16. I completed the program and was shipped off to a halfway house in Kansas. I relapsed in the halfway house after about a year, and spent my 18th birthday in jail. (I was caught stealing a bottle of pills and some 8-track tapes out of a car that I drove through the carwash I working at in Salina, Kansas. It was 1977, remember 8 track?) Well, I was sent back to Louisiana, I tried to go back to High School (that didn’t work), and ended up back in the treatment center and back to the halfway house. I couldn’t stay with the program and I ran away when I found a running buddy willing to take off with me. Her name was Kelly, she was a dancer, and I write a song about her called Evangeline. But I digress....

I tried to put it all behind me, the treatment stays, the halfway houses, all those meeting and big blue books....but I was a mess, and I got way worse as I went deeper into relapse. It got very, very dark, and I am simply lucky to have survived those years. In all fairness, I should be dead.

I eventually got sober when I was 27 years old, when I found myself back in jail again, this time for drunk driving. I started writing songs in earnest at around 32 years of age.

Funny thing, this songwriting journey. Looking back through my song catalogue, my songs sing like an autobiography, or a memoir. My guess is that many songwriters could say that, that their songs are their story; no real need for an actual memoir.

For me my songs and stories stories started after I got sober. I looked back- in song- on my crazy years. I found my voice in recovery; I didn’t find much at all when I was out there swirling further and further down. I never wrote a single song under the influence of drugs or alcohol. I couldn’t do it, even though I tried. I simply couldn’t finish anything. My brain was out of focus in the truest, deepest sense. My eyes could see, but I had no vision.

But here’s the beautiful part … I could not have written “I Drink” if I was never addicted. Writing “I Drink” required a perspective that an active alcoholic is not capable of, and a non-alcoholic cannot fully comprehend. I needed to go through what I went thorough to write it, and today I would not change a thing even if I could because for me, inside the curse--- lives the blessing. The wisdom, vision and compassion that comes from taking a stroll to hell and back cannot be obtained any other way. I was lucky enough to find my way through to the other side of addiction and into recovery, and I continue to receive many, many blessings from all that has transpired in my life. Songwriting is one of the greatest blessings of all, and writing “I Drink” stems from recovery. Ain't life interesting?

I wrote this song when I was almost five years clean and sober. There’s no way I could have seen this character’s plight if I had not lived it, I would not have the perspective to understand the dire situation this character is in until I stepped out of my own downward spiral. Just like it was for me, the character in this song is in full-blown denial, can’t see the real problem, and doesn’t know the cause of the tormenting loneliness and isolation that’s driving the compulsion to self-medicate. The character is classic alcoholic, a garden variety drunk, believing that drinking is the solution and not the cause of the suffering. The character has become resigned to living this way, resigned to drinking, mostly alone, till the bitter end.

As I wrote this song, I tried to imagine myself still active in my own addiction, slowly growing old and sinking in an illness that was killing me. I imagined staying blind, asleep, unaware of the nature of the illness, and unable to see my own hand in creating the problem. Essentially, the song is about who I would have been had I not gotten sober. As I wrote, I turned myself into a guy alone in a room in a cheap apartment in Central Square, in Cambridge, MA. (I knew a guy like that, a wonderful country singer and songwriter, who died of alcoholism in just this horrifying, predictable, boring and sad way). I let myself become him, and the song came out of my imagination and experience.

Fast forward 7 years.

“I Drink” became a very big song for me, a door opener. People began to sing along with me to it everywhere I went. Ireland, England, Norway, Holland, Sweden, Italy-you name it, people came to the shows knowing the words to this song. Sometimes I pull back and just let the audience sing the chorus. It's been amazing to stand on stage and watch people sing these words. once again...ain't life something?

I Drink became what they call a career song.  It’s the song that got me a record deal on Universal/Lost Highway, a publishing deal at Harlan Howard Songs, and a spin on Bob Dylan’s radio show, with Bob reading my lyrics on the air  and telling his audience a little bit of my life story. (Episode #3, Drinking)  It’s a song that keeps on giving. As they say in the business, this song’s got legs.

So no, I don’t drink, but I drank. And then I didn't any more. And from that came so much, so very much.

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Behind The Song: Sugar Cane

(by Mary Gauthier and Catie Curtis) Mama said she don’t give a damn what those people say Cane smoke can’t be good for you day after day Every year at harvest time when the black smoke filled the sky She’d pick me up and take me home and make me stay inside

From Thibodaux to Raceland there’s fire in the fields All the way up the bayou from Lafourche to Iberville Dirty air dirty laundry dirty money dirty rain A dirty dark at daybreak burning the sugar cane

Christmas on the bayou, midnight come and gone Driving past the sugar mill and all the lights are on The parking lot is full of trucks I can see the furnace glow Everybody’s working overtime, it’s a good job, even though

From Thibodaux to Raceland there’s fire in the fields All the way up the bayou from Lafourche to Iberville Dirty air, dirty laundry, dirty money, dirty rain A dirty dark at daybreak burning the sugar cane

First came the sugar cane then came Thibodaux Cane sugar built this town cane sugar paved these roads They burn the leaves to harvest cash, money for the company Money makes the world go round money money money

From Thibodaux to Raceland there’s fire in the fields All the way up the bayou from Lafourche to Iberville Dirty air, dirty laundry, dirty money, dirty rain A dirty dark at daybreak burning, burning

The soot and ash are falling like a dark and deadly snow The air is full of poison to the Gulf of Mexico Dirty air, dirty laundry dirty money dirty rain A dirty deal with the devil, burning the sugar cane

I am a Louisiana kid.

Born in New Orleans, raised in Baton Rouge, and lived for a few years in a little Cajun town of 15,000 souls called Thibodaux. Thibodaux sits next to bayou Lafourche, and it is a hot, humid and slow moving little place. People have a unique accent down there, a Cajun French accent, with plenty French slang thrown in. I went to a couple years of High School there, before I decided High School was not for me.

Down in Thibodaux, sugar cane is a big cash crop, and it’s been that way for a long, long time. 16% of the sugar grown in the U.S. comes from the cane fields of Louisiana. I grew up around the sugar cane fields because both of my parents are from there, and the fields always seemed a little haunted to me. Spooky. Turns out, in Thibodaux, they ARE haunted.

There was a violent labor dispute and racial attack of whites against black workers in Thibodaux, Louisiana in November 1887. The fight was about the money paid to the workers of the cane fields. I'd never been told the story of the Thibodaux massacre, and when I lived there I had no idea that this occurred in my little town, but I felt it in my bones somehow. Something in me knew there was blood in those fields. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I guess the ghosts of the Thibodaux Massacre still linger in the humid air, though no one ever talks about it. There’s a conspiracy of silence around things like this in the South. It's not pleasant to talk about unpleasantness, and so for the most part, people don't.

Though the true number of casualties is unknown, at least 35 and as many as three hundred workers were killed, making it one of the most violent labor disputes in American history. All of the victims were African American. I learned about the history of the sugar industry in Thibodaux through reading books,  years after I’d left Louisiana. Like I said, no one talks about this stuff down there.

The sugar game was, and is, about power and money. It always has been. Sugar is an addiction, and addiction always makes for big, big business.

Sugar cane is harvested by burning the field, and then cutting down the cane stalks after the burn. It’s a messy, ancient way of gathering sugar, but it requires less manual labor than any other way of harvesting, and for people living down there the smoke and soot and ash are just part of a way of life. The sugar industry jobs are good jobs, and people need the work.

Sugar cane is harvested around Christmas time in Louisiana, and a lot of folks associate the smell of the burning cane fields with the holidays. In other words, people think it smells good. But the soot and ash get so thick sometimes you can’t hang laundry outside. When I was a kid my mama used to make me and my brother and sister stay inside when the cane smoke filled the air, and I grew up thinking every kid lived like this. My mother used to get all worked up when they burned the fields, she used to say, “The poison in the air is going to kill all of us! No wonder they call it cancer alley down here in South Louisiana!” Most people thought she was dramatic, and a little off. They didn’t think the smoke was a big deal. They thought the sugar jobs were more important than the mess the smoke caused. It was unpleasant to talk about it.

When my grandmother was dying of lung cancer, I remember looking out of her hospital room in the Thibodaux General Hospital, and all I could see for miles around was cane fields. The enormity of that hit me, even though I was just 16 years old. She lived in Thibodaux her whole life, and died in that room, right there in the middle of the cane fields, her lungs giving out. Like I said, cane is a way of life. And Death.

They tell me they’ve found a cheaper way to harvest cane these days—a way that involves less burning, less pollution. I hope that’s true. It would mean a better way of life for the people down on the bayou, and in other places where the annual burns fill the air with smoke and soot and ash. I wrote this song hoping that one day the practice would change.

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Behind the Song: Wheel Inside The Wheel

(by Mary Gauthier) The parade of souls is marching across the sky Their heat and their light bathed in blue as they march by The All Stars play “When the Saints Go Marching In” A Second Line forms and they wave white hankies in the wind

Satchmo takes a solo, and he flashes his million-dollar smile Marie Laveau promenades with Oscar Wilde Big Funky Stella twirls her little red umbrella to the beat As the soul parade winds its way down Eternity Street

Souls ain’t born, souls don’t die Soul ain’t made of earth, ain’t made of water, ain’t made of sky So, ride the flaming circle, wind the golden reel And roll on brother, in the wheel inside the wheel

Mardi Gras Indians chant in the streets at sundown Spyboy meets Spyboy and Big Chief meets Big Chief uptown They circle and sway in their rainbow colored feathers and beads They prance like peacocks, children of slavery freed

Souls ain’t born, souls don’t die Soul ain’t made of earth, ain’t made’a water, ain’t made of sky Ride the flaming circle wind the golden reel Roll on brother, in the wheel inside the wheel

The Krewe of the Crossbones parades into the midnight sun They march through the fire and come out beating homemade drums While the French Quarter Queens in their high-heeled drag disguise Sing “Over the Rainbow” ‘til Judy Garland quivers and sighs

Souls ain’t born, souls don’t die Soul ain’t made of earth, ain’t made’a water, ain’t made of sky Ride the flaming circle, wind the golden reel And roll on brother, in the wheel inside the wheel

Flambeau dancers light the walkway to Jean Pierre’s There’s a party tonight and all the girls are gonna be there Sipping wormwood concoctions, drinking absinthe and talking trash It’s a red carpet, black tie, all night, celestial bash

Souls ain’t born, souls don’t die Soul ain’t made of earth, ain’t made’a water, ain’t made of sky Ride the flaming circle, wind the golden reel And roll on brother, in the wheel inside the wheel I said, roll on brother, in the wheel inside the wheel Yeah, roll on brother, in the wheel inside the wheel

On the afternoon of July 20, 2002, I rolled into Greenfield, Mass., to perform at the Green River. The colorful beauty of the day had me smiling, and to top it off there were dozens of multi colored hot air balloons in the fields waiting to set sail. The weather was perfect for a music festival, sunny warm, slight breeze, and low humidity. I remember thinking this is going to be a great weekend as I entered the festival’s performer check-in area to get my credentials.  I was particularly looking forward to seeing my friend Dave Carter who was also playing the event.

Dave and I had an amazing run of festivals together (I believe we played 9 or 10 of them) the summer of 1998, and he and his partner—the wildly talented and lovely Tracy Grammer—had been on the road pretty much non-stop after that crazy summer. Yes, the summer of ’98, we were all brand new on the national scene, older than any of the other newcomers, and we were beside ourselves, so excited to be included for the first time on the Folk Festival Circuit, including the prestigious Newport Folk Festival. We bonded as friends that summer, and it was a powerful connection. We got to share the stage at many events, and we swapped songs with each other on workshop stages for the first time. I loved what Dave was up to with his songwriting—I thought (and still think) his writing was tremendous.

We’d spoken on the phone quite a bit after that first summer working together. He’d call from hotel rooms and diners and green rooms, and we’d talk about his travels and how tired he was from the long, long drives they’d have between gigs. I’d call him and tell him to quit complaining. Hell, I was jealous; I wish I had the opportunity to work as much as he was! I was still trying to find an agent, trying to get more work. But all kidding aside, their schedule was grueling, and they both were exhausted. Driving 8, 9,10 hours, then playing, then doing it again and again and again. It’s no way to live. I was really looking forward to seeing him again, and getting caught up on his travels and putting a big hug on him.

I wasn’t there in line waiting for my laminate for 5 minutes when someone, a stranger, came up to me with a somber look on her face and asked, “Have you heard about Dave?” I said nothing, frozen there, afraid of what was coming next. “Dave had a heart attack yesterday, he’s gone. We lost him.” I said, ”Dave Carter? The songwriter? Are you sure?” I had a feeling there was some kind of mistake being made. Someone else came up, and they told me it was true. Dave passed away the day before, after a morning jog, and Tracy was still holed up in the hotel room. I grabbed my phone and called her, then got back in my car and went straight over. It was an awful, awful day. I will never forget it. Dave Carter was one of the true greats, and his timeless songs will live on forever.

Nearly 15 years later, I still have a hard time believing Dave Carter is gone. He was on the brink of international fame, right on the brink of the breakthrough that would have taken care of so many of the financial worries and hard touring woes he was struggling with. But it was not to be. We lost him at the height of his powers.

After the balloon festival, I was scheduled to play in Canada at the Calgary Folk Festival. The title to the song “Wheel Inside The Wheel” came to me in a thought dream I’d had on the flight over to Alberta.  I think it came from an old spiritual folk song I’d heard Johnny Cash sing years before:

Ezekiel saw the wheel Way up in the middle of the air Now Ezekiel saw the wheel in a wheel Way in the middle of the air And the big wheel run by Faith And the little wheel run by the Grace of God In the wheel in the wheel in the wheel good Lord Way in the middle of the air

I stayed in my the hotel room,in between my sets,and  I started working on this song as I grieved the loss of my dear friend. Dave was in my heart and mind as “The Wheel Inside The Wheel” came though me.

In college I’d studied philosophy, and one of the great thinkers I studied in depth was Neitzche. The concept of "eternal recurrence" is central to his writings. In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, he writes of time circular and cyclical, and not linear. This idea, found in many eastern philosophies as well, made sense to me, and stays with me to this day. That we all just move in eternal circles, spirit moving in and out of realms we cannot understand in this incarnation. This thought is deeply imbedded in the song, and married to poetic images from the Book of Ezekiel.

My New Orleans heritage (I was born there) also found its way into the lyrics, and I couldn’t help myself but put a Second Line parade in there, throw in the famous New Orleans Voodoo Queen Marie Laveau, the legendary Satchmo, some Mardi Gras Indians and Oscar Wilde, just ‘cause I adore him and felt like he belonged in a song inspired by Dave Carter. Once I got going, the images in the song came into my mind quickly—it was like they lined up somewhere in the misty muse world, waiting their turn to be included in this romping procession.

This song is a bit of a Jazz Funeral in and of itself, and it is my greatest hope that the ideas of the eternal nature of the soul are true. That souls truly do move in and out this world without ever being born or dying, that we are all immortal in some form, and that we have nothing to fear from death.

On my good days, I am certain that this is true. Dave, I miss you.