Mixed-Up Boogie [working title…]

Back in the Dark Ages, I used to spend a lot of time sitting in the Refectory Lounge at what was then called the University College of North Wales, Bangor. No doubt I should have been in the library, but was likelier to be mistreating a guitar, often in the company of other guitar addicts, including David Higgen, who was better known in those days as Mex. (It must have been a student thing that no one called David should be known by their real name, since I was mostly known at that time as Bert.)

I’ve lost touch with most of the people I knew then apart from Sally Goddard (with whom I used to sing, and who visits my part of Cornwall quite regularly). I’d lost touch with Mex, too, but when I mentioned his name in a blog article, he picked up on it and contacted me, which is nice. During one of our recent exchanges, I mentioned this thing that we used to do as a rather flippant guitar duet. He didn’t remember it, but started to nag me to include it here. I don’t remember exactly how it went (or even what we called it, if we called it anything at all, and I can’t remember Mex’s riff either), but it went something like this. I suppose I ought to have another go to correct a couple of bits of slightly suspect notes and timing (but as Broonzy said, there’s no such thing as a strict 12-bar; or something like that, though I suspect that he had in mind putting in an extra bar, rather than an extra beat). I guess I should put in a second guitar part in at some time, but in the meantime…

I’m not planning on putting it on an album, but never say never.

David Higgen has a lot of very interesting stuff on YouTube.

Sally Goddard has been singing for many years with the Canada-based folk band Atlantic Union, which has put out several classy CDs.

And here’s that boogie thing. Feel free to tell me to boogie off.

Backup:

Paper City revisited

backup:

Rough mix, for the present, and possibly forever, since I’m currently recording a more ambitious version with David Higgen. The updated lyric (finally!) is added below.

A cheerful rock ‘n’ roll-ish ditty about the breakdown of the global economy, written in the very early 80s. These days I wonder which will go first: the economy, or the globe.

I woke up with my mind’s eye facing your direction:
I looked hard and I saw you needed help.
You’re choking on paper and tape and legislation,
But you can’t produce one thing to help yourself.

Paper city at the heart of a paper empire:
You’ve got strings to pull, you’ve got wires all over the earth.
Sky-climbing parasite, concrete and paper jungle,
You’ve got money to burn, but I know you’d rather freeze to death.

You’ve got stacks of stocks and shares and bonds:
You’ve got telephone and telex,databank and dateline too.
But you can’t produce as much as one lead pencil,
Or a bar of soap, or a rubber band to pull you through.

The media twitch at the flash of a freemason’s handshake:
Speeches are made and the punters gather round;
Paper politicians and faceless company men,
Taking the pulse of an ailing paper pound.

I bet you know just what you’re worth on paper:
When the market crumbles, what will that do to you?
So many cold people don’t own the earth they lie in:
Will you be all right in your green-lined paper tomb?

Paper city at the heart of a bankrupt empire:
Your towers get higher as your assets hit new lows.
Nose-diving parasite, I wouldn’t mind you dying,
But you’ll take so many with you when you go.

Updated lyric (recording not yet available); 

I woke up with my mind’s eye fixing your location:
I looked up and I saw you needed help.
You’re floating on algorithms that you can’t understand,
But you can’t produce one thing to help yourself.

Paper city at the heart of a paper empire:
You’ve got strings to pull, you’ve got wires all over the earth.
Sky-climbing parasite, stalking a paper jungle,
You’ve got money to burn, but I know you’d rather freeze to death.

You’ve got stacks of stocks and shares and bonds:
You’ve got more data than you’ll ever know how to use.
But you can’t produce as much as one lead pencil,
Or a bar of soap, or a rubber band to pull you through.

The media twitch at the flash of a freemason’s handshake:
Speeches are made and the punters gather round;
Paper politicians and faceless company men,
Sucking the sap from an ailing paper pound.

I bet you know just what you’re worth on paper:
When the market crumbles, what will you do?
So many cold people don’t own the earth they lie in:
Will you be OK in your green-lined paper tomb?

Paper city at the heart of a bankrupt empire:
Your towers get higher as your assets hit new lows.
Nose-diving parasite, I wouldn’t mind your dying,
But you’ll take so many with you when you go.

Paper City

The 2024 recording with David Higgen is not yet available (hopefully by the end of 2024), but I’ve added the updated lyric below.

Words & music (c) David Harley

1980s studio version (vocals and guitars all David Harley)

backup:

 

2019 demo version

Backup:

Old Lyric:

I woke up with my mind’s eye facing your direction:
I looked hard and I saw you needed help.
You’re choking on paper and tape and legislation,
But you can’t produce one thing to help yourself.

Paper city at the heart of a paper empire:
You’ve got strings to pull, you’ve got wires all over the earth.
Sky-climbing parasite, concrete and paper jungle,
You’ve got money to burn, but I know you’d rather freeze to death.

You’ve got stacks of stocks and shares and bonds:
You’ve got telephone and telex,databank and dateline too.
But you can’t produce as much as one lead pencil,
Or a bar of soap, or a rubber band to pull you through.

The media twitch at the flash of a freemason’s handshake:
Speeches are made and the punters gather round;
Paper politicians and faceless company men,
Taking the pulse of an ailing paper pound.

I bet you know just what you’re worth on paper:
When the market crumbles, what will that do to you?
A lot of cold people don’t own the earth they lie in:
Will you be all right in your green-lined paper tomb?

Paper city at the heart of a bankrupt empire:
Your towers get higher as your assets hit new lows.
Nose-diving parasite, I wouldn’t mind you dying,
But you’ll take so many with you when you go.

Copyright David Harley 1982

Updated lyric, 2024 (recording not yet available): 

I woke up with my mind’s eye fixing your location:
I looked up and I saw you needed help.
You’re floating on algorithms that you can’t understand,
But you can’t produce one thing to help yourself.

Paper city at the heart of a paper empire:
You’ve got strings to pull, you’ve got wires all over the earth.
Sky-climbing parasite, stalking a paper jungle,
You’ve got money to burn, but I know you’d rather freeze to death.

You’ve got stacks of stocks and shares and bonds:
You’ve got more data than you’ll ever know how to use.
But you can’t produce as much as one lead pencil,
Or a bar of soap, or a rubber band to pull you through.

The media twitch at the flash of a freemason’s handshake:
Speeches are made and the punters gather round;
Paper politicians and faceless company men,
Sucking the sap from an ailing paper pound.

I bet you know just what you’re worth on paper:
When the market crumbles, what will you do?
So many cold people don’t own the earth they lie in:
Will you be OK in your green-lined paper tomb?

Paper city at the heart of a bankrupt empire:
Your towers get higher as your assets hit new lows.
Nose-diving parasite, I wouldn’t mind your dying,
But you’ll take so many with you when you go.