“A farewell of sorts to my brief career as a full-time musician in the 1970s, which was even less glamorous than this song might suggest. Originally recorded in London in the 1980s, but this is a revisit from 2023. The lyric is slightly bowdlerized by request of Ian Semple, so that he could play it on Coast FM, so you could say this is the radio version. It doesn’t change the meaning at all, so I’ll try to remember to sing it this way in future.”
(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)
Lyrics
Ten Percent Blues
Got a seat facing the engine
So I don’t have to face where I’ve been
Luggage on the rack, no reason to look back
At all my wrecked and reckless vagrant dreams
No more bright lights, no more white lines
Or crashing in the back of the van
No more hustling small-time gigs
I guess time has beaten the band
No more deadlines, no more breadlines Mr 10%, you’re on your own No more fine print, no more backstage blues This rolling stone is rolling home
Got a ticket to take me to tomorrow
It can’t be worse than today
So driver, take me home and don’t spare the horsepower
I’m on a ten year holiday
No more missed chances and chickenfeed advances
Cold chips in the back of the van
No more blown tires and fuses, no more broken promises
Time has beaten the band
No more deadlines, no more breadlines Mr 10%, you’re on your own No more fine print, no more backstage blues This rolling stone is rolling home
No more spotlights, no more ups and downers
Absolutely no stage fright
No more superstar fantasies
From today I’m strictly 9-5
No more infighting, no more moonlighting
No more one-night stands
All along while the band was beating time
I guess time was beating the band
No more deadlines, no more breadlines Mr 10%, you’re on your own No more fine print, no more backstage blues This rolling stone is rolling home
credits
from Swan Songs, released June 28, 2023
Words, music, guitar, resonator guitar and vocal by David A. Harley.
So a week after arriving in Athens we were at Piraeus looking for a boat to Ios which we’d heard was very nice. Unfortunately there wasn’t a ferry until the following day and not wanting to hang around the port we opted for one to Mykonos instead.
Ferry Crossing – Tinos (near Mykonos)
The crossing was perfect and we arrived around 2pm. Without much cash and realising it was a Sunday and banks would be closed we settled on the old favourite, a loaf of bread. On discovering there was a bus to the other side of the island where there was a lovely beach named Heaven we took it. It was a rough ride, but on getting there we bumped into some English lads we’d spoken with at Dafni and ended up staying with them, reading, talking and playing cards. We slept in a sort of rough rock shelter, a bit like a cave, as we couldn’t be bothered to pitch the tent and awoke to another perfect day.
Our cave dwelling
Now to find that ferry to Ios.
There wasn’t a ferry until the Tuesday so we spent the rest of the time sunbathing and swimming and on the Monday evening we built a beach bonfire which was quite a disaster as the lads got very drunk.
We finally departed Mykonos around 4:15pm, an hour late due to the windy weather, so we only arrived on Ios at 7:45pm where we went for a meal at the harbour front and camped on the harbour beach for the night. I slept badly as it was cold and windy and we hadn’t pitched the tent, just using our sleeping bags which ended up coated in sand. After fortifying ourselves with bread and honey and a milky Nescafé we set off up the hill to the town of Chora the main town or capital of many Greek islands and regions, typically characterized by traditional Cycladic architecture, white-washed houses, narrow streets, and elevated, defensive locations. There were a lot of steps!
Chora
We stopped for a drink at Yannis café before continuing along the rough track to an unspoiled beach ‘Mylopotas’ that we had heard was a popular place for camping. The views from the top were stunningly beautiful. Blue sky, blue sea (nothing like our usually brown North Sea) and a wide curving sandy beach.
The Beach
The route down to the beach was rather precarious, basically clambering down the cliff and one we would find even more difficult in the dark. There were already several tents pitched alongside the rough stone with olive trees which ran alongside the beach and which provided some shelter.
Cathy and our tent
We found a space and pitched our tent and went for a swim, this island looked like it was going to be a lovely relaxing place for the rest of the week which was when the next ferry back to Piraeus was due.
That evening we went back to Chora and discovered Homer’s Cave – a disco with the tiniest dance floor heaving with crowded sunburned, sweaty bodies – all frantically dancing to The Who, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Poco, the Rolling Stones etc. We had a great time. Homer’s Cave became a regular evening event, the days spent sunbathing and swimming, drinking Nescafé and socialising.
There were two small cafés to choose from, one at either end of the curved bay, where we had breakfasts of honey and thick Greek yoghurt, or fried eggs! Even octopus stew one evening – we saw that one being caught! We met lots of lovely people from the USA, Canada, Europe, and a couple of Spanish guys who were – you guessed – musicians! So some evenings were spent around a fire on the beach listening to the guitars. And everyone joined in singing to the popular songs.
More tents on the beachside of the hedgerow
We were offered a lift all the way back to Munich by the English guys who had joined us from Mykonos, but we were undecided. We really didn’t want to leave this idyllic place. On Friday evening we were back at Homer’s having fun and we were escorted back to our camp by Major who was a very interesting character. He was a Canadian and a definite fruit loop – but so very cheerful all the time.
Anyway Saturday came and went, and we decided to stay on for another few days enjoying the weather and the company. Sunday was very quiet. Apparently some dope had arrived on the island brought in by someone on the ferry and everyone seemed to be sleeping off the effects. Everyone except us it seemed.
We bumped into another couple we’d met in Dafni, Terri and Richard from London, who had arrived on yesterday’s ferry and took them to Homer’s. Terri wasn’t feeling so well though so instead of camping they took a room at Yannis café. We joined them for a meal on the Tuesday where we learned that because of the windy weather there would be no more ferries until the following Saturday when we decided we had to leave.
Money was getting quite short and it was time to head north.
“I originally recorded this in the 80s. This version uses a significantly different rhythm guitar, a less in-yer-face slide guitar, and vocal harmonies that aren’t too different from the original recording. 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.
This was the one song of mine that I got to sing lead on with the legendary Flying Piglets, being otherwise relegated to harmonies, lead and acoustic guitar duties.”
(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)
Lyrics
Paper City
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.
(Ch.) 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.
credits
from Swan Songs, released June 28, 2023
Guitar, slide guitar, vocals, words and music by David A. Harley.
After breakfast the next day we wandered along the beach where it was very windy and there were very few people about. Later back at our tent we met two German guys who had pitched their tent next to ours. They made us a cup of tea (although I don’t actually drink the stuff, but it would have been impolite to refuse) and then took us out in their boat. The sea was full of jelly-fish which explained why no-one was swimming and apparently there had been quite a storm whilst we had been in Turkey. Later they bought us an ice-cream. In the evening we went to a disco, wearing our one and only dresses, and finished the night having coffee with a couple of Swiss guys who were pitched opposite us listening to Woodstock (again) and Led Zeppelin on their cassette recorder.
We didn’t do a lot for the rest of the week. Went into Thess a few times, visited the White Tower, bought food. Sunbathed, swam. Got picked up by several lads, including a couple of American air force men who took us for a beer. There wasn’t a shortage of men on this trip that’s for sure! Not sure where to go next. We needed an incentive to move.
Then along came Barney. A student teacher from Solihull who had us in stitches talking about his teaching practice – something I ought to have remembered in future years – he made us coffee and talked so enthusiastically about Athens, where he’d just come from, our decision was made. Athens next.
Departing early the next morning by the time we had got through Thess it was almost noon. A few lifts later and we reached Pydna where we met up with another three Brits. This time they were from our own county of Yorkshire! Welcome to Steve, John and Charlie! We spent an hilarious evening with them at a campsite near Volos. Drinking retsina (disgusting stuff) and being thrown in the sea fully clothed! The sea was warm though and perhaps our clothes did need washing by then.
They were staying on for a few days, but we wanted to get moving as money was tight and we were lucky to get a lift with a Greek couple and their young son all the way to Athens arriving at noon. It was unbelievably hot. We spent a long time trying to find a bus going to Dafni as we had been told there was a campsite there. It also happened to be next to a wine festival which was no bad thing, although neither of us were particularly wine drinkers. Our usual tipple would be half a pint of Tetley’s Mild. The only wine available in the northern cities was some horrid sweet Australian stuff from Yates Wine Lodge with its sticky sawdust floors!
We were so hot by the time we arrived we just flopped into some shade, too tired to even put the tent up. And just people watched. When we did pitch the tent we ended up bending half the pegs because the ground was rock hard. Showered and fed we popped round to the wine festival where we met quite a lot of English travellers – some very drunk.
A view of the city of Athens, with Mount Lycabettus as the prominent hill
We ended up staying at this campsite for a week. Bussing into Athens several times to visit the Acropolis (of course) and the Plaka district where we bought more sandals and learned to love Gyros – slivers of meat sliced from a giant roasting spit served with salad and pita. We lived off it and it was so very cheap. We also discovered yoghurt and honey for breakfast, spaghetti with meatballs (we were from the north you know, and the only spaghetti we knew came from a can) and lovely stuffed tomatoes and peppers. We had never eaten so well.
Amphitheatre and view of Athens towards Piraeus
We learned to ask for Nescafé for coffee and not just coffee as that was the thick Turkish drink with the dregs that you do not want to enter your mouth. We had many conversations with people who had just returned from the islands and decided that we would like to see them too.
(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)
Lyrics
Death of a Marriage (words & music by David A. Harley)
The blinds are down, the locks are changed,
His cases packed and sent:
Some boxes for collection gather dust.
They’re shaking hands like strangers – that’s all that either dares:
It’s just the death of a marriage and there’s no room left for trust.
The bedroom they shared is advertised to let,
And she’s moved in with the kids.
He’s found himself a bedsit, it’s handy for his job,
But it’s the death of a marriage that was too long on the skids.
He spends a lot of time alone, because the maintenance is crippling
And he hasn’t got the bread to do the town:
He’s restless and confused, and not too certain what he wants,
Feeling guilty, ‘cause he knows he’s let her down.
She’s anxious and she’s angry, and the kids are a pain:
They miss their dad, and mum gets upset easily.
She rings from time to time, and they talk about her problems:
She says he has it easy, and of course he disagrees.
Sometimes they meet for a lunchtime drink:
He babysits, and sometimes takes the kids out for the day.
They both see other people, but they’re scared to get involved:
They’ve both been hurt too much already, and there isn’t much to say.
Sometimes, almost by chance, they spend the night together,
And wonder how they managed on their own,
But sooner or later the arguments take over:
It’s just a dying marriage that refuses to lie down.
They live day-to-day with their crises and neuroses:
Making some sort of adjustment, as best they can they cope,
Huddled round the embers of the love that passed between them,
They see each other growing older, and they’re learning not to hope.
The blinds are down, the locks are changed,
His cases packed and sent:
Some boxes for collection gather dust.
They wave goodbye like strangers – that’s all that either dares:
It’s just the death of a marriage and there’s no room left for trust.
credits
from The Game of London, released April 19, 2021
Vocal, acoustic and electric guitars, words & music by David Harley.
Recorded at Centre Sound, Camden.
Reel4Transfer for recovering usable tracks from the Centre Sound tapes – which had suffered deterioration from ‘sticky shed syndrome’ – and transferring them to digital media.
TRAVEL WORDS 