Although the anniversary bench challenge came to an end in December, seeing this scene made me wish it hadn’t. So many benches! And that’s not all, there were plenty more in the gardens from where I had this viewpoint.
#WordlessWednesday
This will be the last song from David’s extensive catalogue. It is sad to think that there really are many songs and scraps of words that he wrote that will never be recorded, but I am glad that there are many that he did. I hope you have enjoyed listening to the few that I have picked out and also the ones on Cornwall In Colours and if you do want to hear more then please visit his collection on Bandcamp where you can find all of his albums. No need to purchase them.
“When you’ve written as many songs as I have, and lived as long, and been so obsessed with songwriting, you have to wonder sometimes what will become of them when you’re not around to sing them.”
(Note to anyone looking at this post in the Reader or on a phone you may need to visit the actual site to be able to view and listen to the music track)
This is my box of dreams, my nest of nightmares
Words and lines and verses in a cage
Fragments of conversation
Thoughts that barely made the page
Some days, I think someday I’ll write them
All the verses in vitro in this room
Someday these little birds will find the way to fly away
They won’t need me anymore and they’ll be gone
Some days I call myself a writer
Though I’m afraid I might have lost the paperwork
Till they tap me on the shoulder and remind me
My poetic licence hasn’t been revoked
When my last song has been written
When I’ve picked out my last chord
My box of dreams will still be here
Overflowing still with orphaned words
For every song without warning
That somehow made it to be heard
There’ll still be all these scraps of recollection
Thoughts and dreams that never found their words
Sometimes I call myself a writer
Though I’m afraid I might have lost the paperwork
Till they tap me on the shoulder and remind me
My poetic licence hasn’t been revoked
David A. Harley 1949 – 2025
“In early 2023 an awkward medical condition brought it home to me that perhaps it was time to draw a line under any pretensions I have to live performance, so this version came about because I was trying out live versions that would work well with a single electric guitar for a concert set at the St Just Lafrowda festival in July 2023, my official farewell to the live stage.
I actually said my goodbye to the life of the wandering professional musician in the 1970s, so this is definitely not autobiographical, though it’s a fairly recent song, and it might have described my life if I hadn’t gone in a very different direction. I strongly suspect that if I’d persisted in trying to play music for a living, the road might well have been the ruin of me. And while my own biographical timeline is very different, I’m not unfamiliar with the psychology of a thwarted career in music.”
(Note to anyone looking at this post in the Reader or on a phone you may need to visit the actual site to be able to view and listen to the music track)
It’s late and the driver has nothing to say
One more stop ahead
On an endless highway
One more place to be, and nowhere to stay
For the road was the ruin of me
The tour bus, the tranny,
The fluffed chords of fame
The days in the airport, the runaway train
You don’t care for my songs
And you don’t know my name
For the road was the ruin of me
I was never a drifter, I’d no urge to roam
But somehow the tour bus
Became my home
The scenery fades
And the scene is long gone
And the road was the ruin of me
The smoke and the pipe dream,
The whisky, the beer
There’s nothing to treasure
And nothing to fear
There’s no one here now
To send out for some gear
And the road was the ruin of me
The call of the wild,
And the song of the road
The end of the game
And the call of the void
There’s no one to meet
And there’s nowhere to hide
The road was the ruin of me
The heroes and villains,
The bait and the switch
The hole in my sock
And the travelling itch
I’ll never be famous,
I’ll never be rich
For the road was the ruin of me
I drank much too deep at the wishing well
I knew what I wanted but never could tell
Now I’ve only these dreams
And these few words to sell
For the road was the ruin of me
All that I’ve learned is how little I know
All I’ve come home to is a new place to go
And it’s never a place that I wanted to be
For the road was the ruin of me
David A. Harley 1949 – 2025
Long ago, in a university far away – well, North Wales – there was a loose accumulation of musicians that sometimes performed under a name that rather cheekily parodied that of a local Silver Band. Some 50 years on, Dave Higgen and David Harley somehow got back in touch, swapped some recordings, and eventually fell into recording and even occasionally writing together, through the wonders of internet communication. It seemed appropriate to relaunch as the New Prize Silver Jug Band. Other silver bands and jug bands are available.
“David Harley originally recorded this in a solo country blues style (not released commercially), but Dave pointed out that it would lend itself to a treatment closer to urban blues, and did most of the heavy lifting on the recording. David used his Gretsch resonator guitar for the slide part, but it does sound less country blues and more as if he’d washed his hands in Muddy Waters… To get that hybrid sound, Dave mixed the input from the internal transducer and from an external mic..”
(Note to anyone looking at this post in the Reader or on a phone you may need to visit the actual site to be able to view and listen to the music track)
I came home last night, just about the break of day
She’s got her suitcase packed, just about to make her getaway
(ch) She said, well now baby, who do you think you are
You stayed out all night, don’t know what you came back for
Five long years my baby walked the line
Now she’s gone, long gone, since she found out I was playing double time
Down at the courthouse, fell down on my knees
Said I love you babe, won’t you forgive me please?
Wrote her a letter, wrote it on my knees
Babe I learned my lesson, won’t you come back please?
She wrote back, well now baby, who do you think you are
Got my eyes wide open, don’t know what I’d come back for
David A. Harley 1949 – 2025
“The first version of the lyric vanished during the breakup with an ex-girlfriend. The second vanished during my first marriage. (My wife hated it, so I don’t suppose she stole it.) This is number three – the lyric, that is. I have an ex-rated musical career.”
(Note to anyone looking at this post in the Reader or on a phone you may need to visit the actual site to be able to view and listen to the music track)
I don’t want to hear that the show must go on
I know that the world keeps on turning
But how can you ask me to rise with the lark
With this pain in my heart still burning?
(ch) Let me lie easy, let me lie late/Let me lie low, let the world wait
Let me lie easy, let me lie late/Please let me sleep till it’s over
The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn
The dogs call in vain for their master
Just give me a while to untangle my threads
And Little Boy Blue will come after
The summer’s near gone and the year’s on the wane
The harvest stands ripened and wasting
Just give me an hour to unscramble my head
And I promise I’ll not keep you waiting
David A. Harley 1949 – 2025
TRAVEL WORDS 