“The kettle’s on the boil,
Lord, the night is almost gone.
The fire is a-dyin’ down,
and I’m tryin’ to write this song.”
“The Highway Callin'”
Sit back and give a good, close listen to this live wire of a live album of Fred J. Eaglesmith’s songs about the living and the dead- whether in heart, mind or soul- and you’ll be damn grateful he opened a vein in pain to let loose this bracing bunch of songs … these tales from his musical root cellar of growin’ up in the open farmland of Ontario, Canada.
It was his American debut twenty years ago next month, for about a hundred of us soundly stunned listeners in a tiny, suburban Detroit church choir room- but let me be very clear that these, fatally true country blues birthed north of the border … speak loud and very clear to anyone, anywhere with an open heart to the struggles of others- even if you’re never planted seed, raised cattle or been to a rodeo.
It’s just a pack of straight shootin’ songs- cracked, detail-packed, a bit sweet ’til gone bitter, story-stacked … a view into the small gains and oft’ permanent, soul slaying pains … of Fred’s people from the plains.
And on this special night of razor sharp, raw and rowdy, quietly shocking and even rocking sounds … Fred’s mates The Flying Squirrels- the now sadly late, master and so moving mandolinist Willie P. Bennett, and solid bassist Ralph Schipper, earned my huge respect for their instrumental and vocal harmonic contributions … professionals and pals perfectly pitching in for the concert cause.
As to them truth-telling voices, the opening acapella three-part on “(He’s got a heart made of) Yellow Barley Straw” alone flat out flattened us that night … it just ain’t for the faint of us still runnin’ on our red, flesh-and-blood organs.
On the “odds stacked against us” side of relations with the fairer sex, just be real still and hear Fred’s achingly blunt “ain’t fooling no one but myself” confessionals, “I’m Just Dreamin”, or “My Last Six Dollars”.
And go ahead, close your your eyes and hear it from each side of that personal picket fence- a bridge too far battle in the stillness of “Summerlea” … and the wild young ones in the ridin’ high, yet still lonesome sound stakes of “Rodeo Rose“- on a lifetime loser to the law, and a lifetime loser of a maw.
As Fred’s family were losers of their farm when he was a teen, sending him train-hoppin’ across Canada … the heart-breaking songs here make it clear the crops lost and financial drops cost are just the tells … of the inner bells that toll louder, and kill the prouder of the growers, once lowered.
A few of the stake-in-the-soul, sown-and-blown, down on the farm ‘ers … “Thirty Years of Farming”, “Sunflowers” and “Go Out and Plough”. Hear ’em and either you get it, or you don’t.
After Fred tells his tale of him and his siblings crowded in front in his Dad’s five-ton, with cattle crowded in back … the really rough-on-the-ears, rocky road rhythms of “Rough Edges” … leaves far more than mere scratches on your soul.
Fred gets the last word here …
“The whistle wails, the trains roll on
“I guess I’ll go back to where I come from …
to where my daddy sits, on a little porch,
on a little farm, in a little town that they call Jericho.
He always told me, son, you should know,
The walls always tumble down just when you’re sure they won’t.”
“Jericho”
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TimMusic- “I don’t fear the words and sounds … just try holding them close to my heart” 