Monday Music Appreciation #41: Everything reminds me of my dog

What would you call him?

Since Friday, my favourite radio station, CKUA, has been running its annual fall fundraising drive, and I've been enjoying the hosts teaming up and playing listener requests while they invite listeners to donate to the station. 

It's a unique and wonderful thing, this province-wide, listener-funded radio station that's been running for 97 years. It doesn't play top-40 hits -- rather, it caters to local musicians and other talented folks I would otherwise never hear of. Sometimes it plays stuff I'm not crazy about, but if I wait a few minutes, I hear something more to my taste, and I've fallen in love with a few of the announcers.

It's the only station that has played So Fine, a joyful tune my kids recorded, and it has helped launch the careers of many artists through its arts and culture programming. It can be heard anywhere in the world if you click this link.

On Saturday, as I was planting the last of my spring bulbs, the song below came through my earbuds, and made me laugh with delight. I saw Jane Siberry perform it live once, and enjoyed its humour then. I'm not sure if I'd heard it since, but I offer it below as a bit of music to be appreciated this Monday.

Not everything reminds me of my dog, but I'm posting a picture of the Havanese puppy who will be joining our household in two weeks. As yet, he's still with his mama and seven litter mates, and we are in the process of preparing for him to live here -- and throwing names around. We want to avoid common human names, and are compiling a list of possibilities. If you look at this picture and a name springs to mind, please send it my way. You might have better ideas than I do!

Here's Jane Siberry's Everything Reminds Me of My Dog. Enjoy!

Singing on the bus Part II -- The Preacher and the Bear

(Click here to see the original 'Singing on the bus')

The bus driver who offered me a free ride for a song was driving the 94 again yesterday.

"We've missed you, been waiting for you," he said. "There's room right here on the wheel well for your guitar case."

The boy with the earbuds grinned and shoved over to make room for a woman with guitar, and a few of the passengers further back smiled at me, clearly aware of what was coming -- a song from a stranger.

I unpacked my guitar, telling the busdriver, "You weren't driving the last time I rode this bus, but I had such a bad cold that you wouldn't have wanted me to croak anything out."

"You seem fine today," he observed.

So I sat down and sang my favourite joke song (don't you think there should be a music category like that?), 'The Preacher and the Bear.' This time, no one applauded, but they laughed at the punchline. Then I packed up my guitar again, and chatted with the driver about this and that until we arrived at the university where I got off.

The driver said, "You made the day of some of my riders. If you can do that, why not?" And I agreed. But next time, I think I'll sing an audience participation song. Hey Jude, maybe?

Last night I searched the internet for 'The Preacher and the Bear,' a song that my Uncle Richard recorded in the early '70s with the Macklin Alouettes on the only record they ever made. It's a song that has stayed with me for reasons unknown -- I guess because it's a cute, clean joke with a catchy tune. I've sung it on several occasions, sometimes to pull the leg of clergy friends (substituting "Fr. Jim, he went a walking," for the opening line). It usually gets a chuckle or two.

There are some interesting versions of the song on YouTube, but they all leave the poor preacher stuck in a tree, including my favourite find by the Jubalaires, which is almost more like slam poetry than the song I sing.

I love how the story of the preacher and his grizzly nemesis are the verses between "That a-old-time-a-relid-gion-brother..."

Of course, I much prefer Uncle Richard's version of the story in which the two opponents go their separate ways, one somewhat triumphant and other unscathed. Not finding anything like it on YouTube, I've recorded my own version in an effort to keep the song alive -- I don't imagine too many people are listening to the Macklin Alouettes these days, and I'm not sure where the Alouettes found the song to begin with. Maybe they invented their own version? Complete with the sound of a boxing ring bell ('Ding! One round for the bear!').

So here's 'The Preacher and the Bear,' especially for Uncle Richard, for my friends and readers, and, as I said, as a record of a song that I can't find anywhere else. I'm glad for these electronic ways we have of preserving the stories and songs of the past (those Jubalaires have some pretty great old tunes if you have time to listen)... and I'm also grateful that I have a voice to sing one or two of them for my own enjoyment. It's not a great voice, but it's a good story. Enjoy!

The Man Who Does the News

It's a busy day. Doctor's appointments, watering plants for people who are away in this heat, and I have three yards of compost to move off my front boulevard. So Simple Suggestions will wait, and I'll leave you with a little song to entertain you. It was written and sung by one of my favourite folk singers -- I was a regular groupie of Joan MacIsaac's in my teens. Of course, when she sang this song, she mentioned Harvey Kirck and Knowlton Nash (remember him?) and I always wondered who her favourite newscaster was, but never got to ask her, or if I did, I don't remember her answer.

Have a good weekend! I'll be shovelling, shovelling, shovelling... and maybe singing The Man Who Does the News to myself...

God and St. Francis talk about lawns

I wish I knew who wrote the wonderful piece below. I'd like to shake their hand and give them some organically grown vegetables from my garden!

GOD: Frank, you know all about gardens and nature. What in the world is going on down there on the planet? What happened to the dandelions, violets, thistles and stuff I started eons ago? I had a perfect, no maintenance garden plan. Those plants grow in any type of soil, withstand drought and multiply with abandon. The nectar from the long lasting blossoms attracts butterflies, honey bees and flocks of songbirds. I expected to see a vast garden of colors by now. But all I see are these green rectangles.

ST. FRANCIS: It's the tribes that settled there, Lord. The Suburbanites. They started calling your flowers "weeds" and went to great lengths to kill them and replace them with grass.

GOD: Grass? But it's so boring. It's not colorful. It doesn't attract butterflies, birds and bees, only grubs and sod worms. It's sensitive to temperatures. Do these Suburbanites really want all that grass growing there?

ST. FRANCIS: Apparently so, Lord. They go to great pains to grow it and keep it green. They begin each spring by fertilizing grass and poisoning any other plant that crops up in the lawn.

GOD: The spring rains and warm weather probably make grass grow really fast. That must make the Suburbanites happy.

ST. FRANCIS: Apparently not, Lord. As soon as it grows a little, they cut it - sometimes twice a week.

GOD: They cut it? Do they then bail it like hay?

ST. FRANCIS: Not exactly, Lord. Most of them rake it up and put it in bags.

GOD: They bag it? Why? Is it a cash crop? Do they sell it?

ST. FRANCIS: No Sir. Just the opposite. They pay to throw it away.

GOD: Now let me get this straight. They fertilize grass so it will grow. And when it does grow, they cut it off and pay to throw it away?

ST. FRANCIS: Yes, Ma'am.

GOD: These Suburbanites must be relieved in the summer when we cut back on the rain and turn up the heat. That surely slows the growth and saves them a lot of work.

ST. FRANCIS: You aren't going to believe this, Lord. When the grass stops growing so fast, they drag out hoses and pay more money to water it so they can continue to mow it and pay to get rid of it.

GOD: What nonsense! At least they kept some of the trees. That was a sheer stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. The trees grow leaves in the spring to provide beauty and shade in the summer. In the autumn they fall to the ground and form a natural blanket to keep moisture in the soil and protect the trees and bushes. Plus, as they rot, the leaves form compost to enhance the soil. It's a natural circle of life.

ST. FRANCIS: You better sit down, Lord. The Suburbanites have drawn a new circle. As soon as the leaves fall, they rake them into great piles and pay to have them hauled away.

GOD: No! What do they do to protect the shrub and tree roots in the winter and to keep the soil moist and loose?

ST. FRANCIS: After throwing away the leaves, they go out and buy something which they call mulch. They haul it home and spread it around in place of the leaves.

GOD: And where do they get this mulch?

ST. FRANCIS: They cut down trees and grind them up to make the mulch.

GOD: Enough. I don't want to think about this anymore. St. Catherine, you're in charge of the arts. What movie have you scheduled for us tonight?

ST. CATHERINE: Dumb and Dumber, Lord. It's a real stupid movie about ...

GOD: Never mind, I think I just heard the whole story from St. Francis!

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