Harley aged 60-something having fun adding lead break to Harley aged 30 something. Clearly, the words have changed a bit over the years. Originally recorded on cassette sometime in the 80s, probably playing my ES175D copy or my Ovation Viper: the lead break was added with a Les Paul Special.
I rolled out my paper this morning to see what Lady Luck would say She said “Sorry boy, no joy: It’s just another rainy day…”
Slow down, Lady Luck: why d’ya turn your back on me? I never meant you any harm at all, but you really have your knife in me
Rolled out of bed this morning, in hopes to see some sun But a long cool woman put the freeze on me and the good times are dead and gone
Slow down, Lady Luck: lady, won’t you let me be? I never meant you any harm at all, but you really have your knife in me
I don’t mean to bring you down, I don’t mean to take you too deep But I’m bored and bad and on my own and I need me a place to sleep
I think I’ll point my feet at the highway and move a little further down the line
If my shoes get stuck maybe Lady Luck will let me go this time
Words & Music by David Harley, copyright 1975
There once existed a recording of this with some percussion. Long gone. More rock than blues, in a pastiche sort of way.
Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn With the sun in your face take the chance to be born Leave all the leavings that time has outgrown Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn
Ice to the flame, the sun to the rain I am Life, I am Death, and Love is my name
Wind on the water, a blight on the heart The fall of the dice and the turn of the card Axe to the tree, the scythe to the corn Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn
Ice to the flame, the sky to the sea All is One and All is in me
Tongue to the bell, an end to the start Trust to time, lend an ear to your heart Wax to the candle and brass to the horn Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn
Ice to the flame, the sun to the rain I am Life, I am Death, and Love is my name
Rust to the sword, an edge to the blade The Healer, the Scourge, the Price to be Paid Love is the Singer and Love is the Song Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn
Ice to the flame, the sky to the sea All is One and All is in Me
Blood on the dagger, a fire in the veins The sweet and the bitter, rainbow and rain The Knight and the Jester, the Queen and the Pawn Turn to the morning and trust to the dawn
Ice to the flame, the sun to the rain I am Life, I am Death and Love is my name
The sort of song I never, ever write. But I’d had a couple of very bad years. And that’s all I’m going to say about that right now.
Rough demo: vocal needs redoing completely when (if) my voice recovers from present croakiness, and guitars could be improved. But at least the tune is now out there.
Groping through the wavebands for a time-check
On a local music station I caught the tail end of the news
Of a singer in New York who’d committed suicide
Too late to catch the name, still I knew that it was you
The way that bad news comes as no surprise
Though till you hear it, you can’t think what could be wrong
In fact I thought of you just the week before
For the first time in years when someone asked me for a song
I’d learned from you
I don’t know how to define what you mean to me now
I never met you, of course, and I don’t sing your songs
Though I did long ago and even now, in a way
There are things I learned from you in songs of my own
I first heard your songs second-hand – the sweeter ones, of course
and bought an album on spec that raised blisters on my soul
In an era where ‘protest’ meant ‘hey man, it’s all wrong’
You were raising real issues and aiming at real goals
And I heard that you’d dried up, or did you just let it pass?
Did you find songs weren’t the weapon we were told that they could be?
No doubt someone has some answers but I’ll never really know
If you just decided snapshots don’t alter history
I’ve been thinking for hours there should be better songs to write
But thinking just makes circles in my head
There’s just a vague ache where my conscience ought to be
And a sour conviction that something true is dead
Only time will tell if I’m repeating your mistakes
Perhaps you’d have survived turning redneck like your peers
The romantics seem to be the real cynics after all:
Could it be the escapists really have the right idea?
And did you just decide living was a bind?
Slops for the body and musak for the mind?
Phil Ochs hanged himself in April 1976, after several very troubled years. Michael Schumacher suggested in his biography that “By Phil’s thinking, he had died a long time ago: he had died politically in Chicago in 1968 in the violence of the Democratic National Convention; he had died professionally in Africa a few years later, when he had been strangled and felt that he could no longer sing; he had died spiritually when Chile had been overthrown and his friend Victor Jara had been brutally murdered; and, finally, he had died psychologically at the hands of John Train.” [The strangling took place when he was travelling in Tanzania – the assault left him with his vocal range seriously reduced. For some months in 1975 he told people that he was John Butler Train, saying that he’d killed and replaced Phil Ochs.]
The lyric is fairly literal. I did hear the ‘tail end of the news’ on a local station in Berkshire, where I was living at the time. The ‘song I’d learned from you’ was Ewan MacColl’s Ballad of the Carpenter, which I still sing from time to time, and the album I bought was “I ain’t marching any more“. (I often sing the song of that name and go straight into this song – or did when I performed regularly.) At the time I bought it, I was only aware of a couple of his songs sung by others, notably Joan Baez – whose version of ‘There but for fortune’ had made the UK top ten – and ‘Changes’, which I think I first heard sung by Julie Felix. The album actually has a wider range of material than the topical/’protest’ label might indicate, with a couple of the verse settings he did so well and the descriptive song ‘Hills of West Virginia’, as well as the searing ‘Talking Birmingham Jam’ and the darkly comical ‘Draft Dodger Rag’.
Ochs didn’t exactly ‘go redneck’ but his later concerts did reflect an urge to get the attention of the public by mixing his own material with covers of older rock and country material, and I certainly preferred at that time the straightforward topical material of ‘Marching’ and ‘All the news that’s fit to sing’ to the more self-consciously poetic material like ‘Crucifixion ‘. But there may be a hint there that I was already aware that the very English school of socially and historically aware singer-songwriter that I was loosely aligned to (Bill Caddick, Peter Bond et al) was already outgrowing its one-voice-one-guitar roots.
David Harley
Small Blue-Green World
ESET Senior Research Fellow
David Harley Words & Music 
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