© (p) 2006 Timberhead Music
PO Box 840
Camden ME 04843
www.gordonbok.com
For years I felt that knowing a concert was being recorded would remove the immediacy and spontaneity from it, along with that feeling of conversation that I usually feel with audiences.
My friends convinced me that we always have too much fun in a concert-hall for that to happen, and that I ought to let more people in on the fun, so in May and June of 2006 I recorded some concerts I was doing in Maine. This album is a sampling of them.
Recorded at the Strand Theatre, Rockland, Maine; The Chocolate Church, Bath, Maine; Center Theatre, Dover-Foxcroft, Maine; and Johnson Hall, Gardiner, Maine.
A special thanks to our loyal audiences for singing so beautifully and for providing the authentic cough-tracks.
Recorded, engineered and mastered by Bruce Boege, Limin Music, Northport, Maine.
With additional recording by Rick Crampton and Bradley Truman
Mixed by Bruce Boege, Gordon Bok, and Anne Dodson
Produced by Gordon Bok and Anne Dodson
Front cover photography by Mike Power
Inside photography by Janet Buck-Marusov
Programming by Carol Rohl
Graphic Design by Ken Gross
Where possible, I print the oldest sources I have of these songs, no matter how much they differ from the versions that came to me.
The January Men and Then Some are:
Gordon Bok, Will Brown, Sky Hall, Bill Huntington, Jamie Huntsberger, Cindy Kallet, Bob Richardson, Carol Rohl, and Peter Yantz
Traditional
A song I've known forever. I can't remember where I learned it, but I associate this version with Newfoundland. I've heard it sung "Bung-yer-eye," too.
Gordon – 12 string
Now Jack was a sailor and he walked up to town
And she was a damsel, she skipped up and down
And she says to Jack as she passed him by
"Would you care for to purchase some Old Bungo Rye?"
(Ruddy rye, fol de diddle dye, ruddy rye, ruddy rye)
Says Jack to himself, "Now what can this be
But the finest of whiskies from far Germany
Snuggled up in a basket and sold on the sly
And the name that it goes by is "Old Bungo Rye"
Jack gave her a pound, for he thought nothing strange
"Hold the basket, young man, while I run for your change"
Jack peeked in the basket and a child he did spy
"I'll be damned, (he did cry) this is Queer Bungo Rye"
Well, to get the child christened was Jack's next intent
And to get the child christened, to the parson he went
Says the parson to Jack, "What will he go by?"
"I'll be damned, (did he cry) call him Queer Bungo Rye!"
Says the parson to Jack, "That's a very queer name"
"I'll be damned (did he cry) and it's a queer way he came
Snuggled up in a basket and sold on the sly
And the name that he'll go by is Queer Bungo Rye!"
So come all you young sailors who walk up to town
Beware of those damsels who skip up and down
Take a peek in their baskets as ye pass them by
Or else they may pawn on you Queer Bungo Rye!
© 1999 M.J. O'Connor
Author Mike O'Connor, OBE, says "'The Crowns' was a famous tin mine on the Cornish coast. Its main shaft was started in 1858. Unlike most shafts it sloped at an angle of about 45° leading to a labyrinth of about 60 miles of tunnels under the Atlantic. Men were carried up and down the shaft in a gig, a purpose-built wheeled box, which was also used to raise ore.
"The incident I describe is true. When the last shift came up, in 1914, all the families gathered at the pit head. Long before the wagon carrying the men came into sight their voices could be heard singing in harmony, the sound echoing up to the surface from beneath the ocean."
Gordon – Spanish guitar
When the Crowns closed
And the last shift returned from the shaft beneath the sea
We heard them first, for every man was singing
As each in turn rose to the sunset glow
On harmonies born from the gates of Hell
That even drowned the breakers on the granite far below
I asked the last man
What he remembered from his years beneath the ground
He said, at the end of shift when all was quiet
The drill was stopped, the pumps were far away
Before going to the shaft with all its singing
In silence he would listen and in silence he would pray
What did you hear?
"Seas braking over, close above the mine"
He'd catch the water from the tunnel roof
He'd taste for salt, then silently he'd pray
For all who worked 'neath ocean and 'neath granite
He said the sound of waves above would haunt him all his days
What of today?
Crown's engine-house is a silent, empty shell
The shaft is gone and all who sang so fine
I never felt the granite tremble 'neath the swell
But I heard the last shift rising to the sunlight
And I still remember singing out of the Gates of Hell
(Sir Patrick Spens, Child No. 58)
© 1975 Bob Coltman
I sang with Ed Trickett professionally for many years, and still do for fun. I think I learned this song from him in the 1970s or one of those decades. His friend Bob Coltman has written many hundreds of songs including the great folk-favorite, Lonesome Robin.
Through friends in various services, I've come to know what it's like to be sent to sea and kept out there by people who never had to be out there.
Gordon – 12-string guitar
Oh, don't the moon look pretty, she sails like a ship in the sky
Darling, you don't know nothing about sailing, she's got a cast in the eye
When the moon weeps silvery tears, you can look for a terrible storm
God pity the sailor that's out tomorrow, I'm glad I can bide at home
If you be Patrick Spencer, and man, you better had be
Here's a letter from the King, he commands you to go to sea
How little he thinks of the dangers, among his wine and his song
His daughter in far Norroway, she's sick and she wants to come home
He might have written me greeting, he might have cast me blame
He might have asked me a hundred favors, God knows I'd never complain
But this running up in the rigging with a hurricane on the wing
It's come to a matter of like and death to have to pleasure the King
Standing out to sea, oh Lord, it commenced to rain
The sea like the tops of mountains, and the wind like a thing in pain
Patrick Spencer took his glass, and he put it in Johnny's hand
Run up, Johnny, as high as you can, and see if you see any land
No land, Patrick Spencer, no never a sight of shore
The give it over, boys, he cried, we'll never see home any more
Never mind your knuckle shoes, for you'll wet more than your feet
And as for the letter from the King, it's a damn small winding-sheet
Christinie be a long, long while a-waiting for me to come home
And the cold, cold sea be a long, long time a-walking over my bones
That man that told the King about me, I wish I had him here
And the one last wish I would like to have granted is to carry him under with me
Words © Bill Scott
Music © Roger Illott
When Bill wrote this, he sent it to his friend Roger Illott to put a tune to it. I learned it from Roger's singing. It is printed in Bill's songbook Hey Rain! which Timberhead Music published in the U.S.
Some Aussie words worth knowing:
Stubbies – short cans of beer
Yabbies – crayfish
Plonk – cheap red wine ("Rough Red")
Tucker – food
Burleying – roughing-up (giving them a hard time)
Gordon – Spanish guitar
I remember the days when we used to go fishing
After the whiting around Skirmish Point
With a carton of stubbies, a bucket of yabbies
And worms that we dug from all over the joint
And a plastic container of plonk
Remember the morning old Charlie got blotto
And fell all around in a tangle of lines
He was singing his head off and whirling his sinker
But as he was having a wonderful time
He spilled me container of plonk
How he splashed it all round and some went into the bucket
And the yabbies all went on a beautiful spree
They drank me rough red and got full as old Charlie
And argued and sang and left nothing for me
Of me plastic container of plonk
We were baiting with yabbies all well marinated
And waving their claws as they went on their way
And the whiting got word of this marvelous tucker
And came in their thousands from all round the Bay
To indulge in some yabbies and plonk
When our creels were all full then we started off homeward
With a teetotal nephew to manage the car
Then the whiting all came to surface to thank us
For the taste thrill that came from me old plastic jar
Me plastic container of plonk
So don't talk to me about burleying whiting
Just take a tip from an old fisherman
Bring a little rough red and before you start fishing
Just tip a good slosh in the bait-holding can
From your plastic container of plonk
Words and Music © 1999 Bill Scott
A prime reason for finally extending a tour to Australia was to meet Mavis and Bill Scott, with whom I had corresponded and shared music for so many years.
He lived his last years in Warwick, but when he died in 2005, the family took his ashes North and scattered them by the Johnstone River near Mt. Tully, the area that he loved so well. I learned the song from Penny Davies and Roger Illott, though it's in Bill's songbook.
Gordon – 12-String guitar
I've wandered East, I've wandered West
From the Hamersley Range to the Snowy Crest
From the Lachlan Plains to the Broken Hill
But my heart's at the Johnstone River still
Now the time has come when I must return
Where the vine scrub grows and the canefres burn
Where the vine scrub grows and the canefires burn
By the Yarra now the cold rain falls
And the wind is bleak from the Bass Strait squalls
I stand and wonder in the chill
Has the season started at Mulgrave Hill?
For Autumn comes and I must return
Where the harvesters chug and the trashfires burn
Where the harvesters chug and the trashfires burn
The smog is thick and stings the eye
Where the Harbour Bridge fills half the sky
And the sirens wail through Sydney town
But I dream of Tully when the sun goes down
Where the rainforest covers the hills with green
The cane grows tall and the air is clean
The cane grows tall and the air is clean
I've been wandering South and West
On land and sea, but the North is best
Now Autumn comes with its hint of snows
And I must follow where the egret goes
To watch the evening's first faint star
From Flying Fish Point or Yarrabah
From Flying Fish Point or Yarrabah
Traditional
A Gloucester fishing schooner returning from the Northumberland Strait stopped in at Canso (between Nova Scotia and Cape Breton Island) for supplies for the long beat back to the Westward. The captain went ashore and got into the booze and the rest of it is in the song. The description of heading out at dark, getting into a knock down* and the luck and skill involved in getting her out of trouble is a wonderful piece of reportage and poetry.
Gordon – 12-String guitar
In Canso Strait our vessel lay
She'd just returned from out the Bay
A schooner built both stout and strong
And to Gloucester she did belong
We were homeward bound and ready for sea
When our drunken captain got on a spree
He come on board and to us did day
Get your anchors, boy, and fill away
We got our anchors at his command
And with all sail set we left the land
We left old Sand Point on our lee
And header her out against a steep head-sea
The night come on, the dark clouds lower
The wind did howl and the waves did roar
An angry squall† from the angry sky
It knocked her down about half-mast high
Her jib-sheets parted, which eased her some
She come head-to-wind and she rose again
We got our jibs in and new sheet bent
And straightaway aft to our captain went
We kindly asked him to shorten sail
Or we'd be lost in the heavy gale
He cursed and swore that if the wind would blow
He'd show us how his old boat could go
Then up spoke one of our gallant men
"There's twelve of us right here at hand
We'll reef her down and to sea we'll go
And if you refuse you'll be tied below"
The waves did roar, the wind did rave
We hardly thought our lives we'd save
But we reefed her down to her own success
She's like a bird swinging for her nest
She's headed up off the Cape Shore now
She knocks the white foam off her bow
Oh never again will I ever sail
With a drunken captain and a heavy gale
*where the wind slaps the vessel flat on her side in the water – some vessels don't come back from that
†I sang 'wave'
Poem: © Elizabeth Shane
Music © 2003 Gordon Bok, BMI
Elizabeth Shane (1877-1951) was a poet from Donegal who knew her land and her waters well. This poem has the feel of a lot of the country-folk I've met in my visits to Ireland. "Turf" is peat, dug up in the bogs and dried in stacks, for fuel.
Gordon – Spanish guitar
Mary and Manus are working the turf together
Old they are, the two of them, old and grey
Over the bog the sea-wind sings in the heather
Night clouds lie on the hilltops, far away
They will have comfort now when the nights are colder
They will have turf, aye, plenty of turf to spare
Light she steps with the heavy creel on her shoulder
Load on load for the stack that is building there
Now there is a deeper note than the sea-wind's singing
Soft it comes, on the breath of the dying day
Down in the hollow the bell from the chapel is ringing
And Mary and Manus stand for a minute and pray
Soft and low on the air each long note lingers
Quietly bending their old, grey heads they stand
Making the holy sign with work-worn fingers
Wrapped in the sudden peace that has blessed the land
Is it the light of heaven on the wide sea breaking
Spreading its glory out like a golden rain
And with the light of the world in their eyes a-waking
Mary and Manus are working the turf again
© 1990 J.B. Goodenough
From her book, Milking in November. Jusy was a poet who captured the hard, clear language of the New England landscape with a "fierce economy." She was a good musician too, and wife, mother and friend.
No rum-money
Slave-money
Whale-money
My grandfathers
Were landlubbers all
They left me
A tilted house
A broken-backed barn
And six fields
Hung on the hill
Fifty years
I thought I was poor
But I learned this:
Good dirt
Is hard to come by
© 2004 Gordon Bok
A rowing song
The January Men and Then Some
You can bail her all night, you can haul her all day
HARK NOW, HEED ME NOW
And damned if she'll give you a decent week's pay
OH HEED AND HARKEN TO ME
If Ronnie was here on the end of an oar
I'd show the old bat what a muckle* was for
I've run round old England, I've put into France
Wherever I've landed I got a fair chance
A China-man come to my old woman's door
He gave her a hake and it danced on the floor
O who will pull with ye when I am gone?
If ye pull like ye talk we could lift-her-along†
And who will sing with ye when I am gone?
If ye sing like ye pull we'll be here all night long!
*fish club
†get the job done quickly
Phillip Bliss 1871
I learned this from Kendall Morse in the 1960s – it was popular along this coast a generation before mine. We've heard three different stories of how this song came to be, all involving a ship disaster on the Great Lakes. Phillip Bliss was a well-known evangelist who heard one of these stories and wrote the song.
The January Men and Then Some
Brightly beams out father's mercy
From the Lighthouse evermore
But to us he gives the keeping
Of the lights along the shore
Let the lower lights be burning
Send their gleam across the wave
Some poor fainting, struggling seaman
You man rescue, you may save
Dark the night of sin has settled
Loud the angry billows roar
Eager eyes are watching, longing
For the lights along the shore
Trim your feeble lamp, my brother
Some poor sailor, tempest-tossed
Trying now to reach the harbor
In the darkness may be lost
Poem: © Thedore Goodridge Roberts
Music: © 1973 Dan Aguiar
Stories of people enhancing their living by wreck-picking, or even assisting the wrecks to happen, are rampant round the coasts of many countries. In this poem, it is coastal Newfoundlanders merely praying for a little divine assistance. It comes from The Leather Bottle, a 1937 novel by Theodore Goodridge Roberts. Dan Aguiar is an old musical friend of mine now living in Red Hook, New York.
The January Men and Then Some
Give us a wreck – or two, Good Lord
For winter in Topsail Tickle* is hard
With grey frost creepin' like a Mortal Sin
And perishin' lack of bread in the bin
A grand, rich wreck, we do humbly pray
Busted abroad at the break-of-day
And hove clear in 'cross Topsail Reef
With vittles and hear to beguile our grief
One grand wreck, or maybe two
With gear and vittles to see us through
Til the spring starts up like the leap-of-day
And the fish strike back into Topsail Bay
Lord of reefs and tides and sky
Heed ye our need and hark to our cry:
Bread by the bag and beef by the cask
Ease for sore bellies is all we ask
One rich wreck, for Thy hand is strong
A barque or a brig from up-along†
Bemused by the twisty tides, oh Lord
For winter in Topsail Tickle is hard
Loud and long will we sing thy praise
Merciful Father, O Ancient of Days
Master of fog and tide and reef
Heave us a wreck to beguile our grief
Amen
* a tickle is a small strait, or passage
† To the Westward – Nova Scotia or the U.S.
Words & Music © 2005 Gordon Bok
Through many years on the water, mostly along this coast and a few others, I've heard a lot of things, and have recently been jotting them down as I remember them. This is some parts of conversations strung together and sung. I've interspersed it with one side of a conversation I heard on marine radio a few years ago – that's the spoken part. Memory is a drifty thing, as my brother and I enjoyed proving, so the words may be more mine than theirs, but the stories and the sentiments are true as the day they happened.
Gordon – Spanish Guitar
Sung:
Lord, lord, lord, ain't it pretty today?
With the sky all quilted over like a mattress, soft and gray
See every twig and pebble on the islands up the bay
And the wind away….
Hey, hey, hey; pretty today
Spoken:
Hey Pete – you on this one*?
Yeah, it's me. I been hauling over here under the Blockhouse all morning.
Look – is that you in there by the Sears bell?
I though that looked like you. Uh… you've been kind of… stationary in
there for awhile. Is everything alright?
Aw, that's a bummer. I expect you've cleaned your filters, bled her out,
looked at the aircleaner, like-a-that?
Naw, God, beyond that, I dunno. Could be injectors, anything I guess.
Anyway, I think I'll go over to TurtleHead: I've got a couple of strings in there and
if I can get to them, maybe I can catch up to myself a little this week.
So look, if there's anything I've got that you can use, I'll be in the
neighborhood. You will let me know, won't ya?
Well, good enough; I'll leave you to it, then. I'll be on this channel, anyway.
Sung:
Poor old boats
They're nothing but a flaming
Construct of the Mind
Nothing but a pile of man-made notions
Steel and plastic – spells and potions –
They've got nothing to do with the ocean or the wind
Nothing to do with the water or the wind
Damned old things
Yeah they're nothing but a flaming construct of the mind
Nothing but a flaming fabrication
Some damned human machination
And we wonder why they won't keep a-running on their own
Wonder why they don't keep running on their own
Oh, but someday the world's going to give a great old shake –
Blow us all to hell-and-gone off here
And I know for one that the ocean wouldn't mind
And you can bet your boots that the wind won't even care…
Spoken:
Oh – oh – here we go…
Hey Pete! I know you're busy, but stick your nose up
outa there and talk to me for a minute, will ya?
Yes – you are in kinda close. Look, I've got a line made up right here –
why don't I slide in by your stern and we twitch you
right outa there?
Yeah, that looks good to me. I'll just poke along easy;
we got all day. Hell, we got all night, if we need it.
No, buddy, don't even think about it. Next week it'll be me
out there, we both know that. Look, you talk to Rosie,
you give her my best, won't ya?
Sung:
I don't dream of sailor's heaven, I won't sing of Fiddler's Green
I'm not looking for a fairer world than the one I've always known
I just drive her when she rises and slack her when she falls
And hope I never get to reap all the foolishness I've sown
No, I don't dream of sailor's heaven, I don't sing of Fiddler's Green
I'm not looking for a kinder world than the one I've always seen
I just ease her when she pitches and catch her when she rolls
And get her in before the devil knows we're out here
Lord, lord, lord…. pretty today
* a particular marine radio channel (not 16)
Words & Music © 2003 Mary Garvey
This is about oyster "farming" in the tidal estuaries around Willapa Bay, WA, during WWII, when the women had to replace the men who had gone off either to fight or to be put in interment "camps." Mary, bless her, took the time to listen and to tell their story.
Gordon – 12-string guitar
You have to dig oysters when the tide is just right
And sometimes it comes in the dead of the night
The orders came down to extinguish all light
To our homes on the Oystershell Road
Now the glow of a lantern could bring an attack
And sometimes we'd sleep in the old oyster shack
And let ourselves down with a rake and a sack
Near our homes on the Oystershell Road
Some came from Germany, some from Japan
They lived for the oyster each woman and man
We said, God be with you, return when you can
To your homes on the Oystershell Road
For when push comes to shove your mettle shines through
And our hands and our feet somehow knew what to do
With the men gone away we made such a fine crew
From our homes on the Oystershell Road
In the sea was the sub, in the air was the plane
And the men had it worse so we couldn't complain
And the neighbors would honk us all home in the rain
To our homes on the Oystershell Road
We helped win the war in the mud and the muck
And prayed that our feet would never get stick
When the tide rushes in, you can run out of luck
By your homes on the Oystershell Road
Oh, how I remember the dark and the cold
I had hoped that our story would someday be told
But it probably won't 'cause we're getting so old
In our homes on the Oystershell Road.
© 1984 Gordon Bok, BMI
A remembrance of a day delivering a sad old boat from St. Thomas, VI to Puerto Rico, wherein we strove to avoid damaging the island of Culebra.
Gordon – Spanish guitar
Words and Music © Capt. Dave Kennedy
Dave was a phenomenon, a force of nature. Having "come up through the hawsepipe" on a hundred ships, he had an unlimited license and world pilotage when I met him. A great lover of many kinds of music, he used to write sentimental country songs. This was straight out of his experience running a small, independent company of ship-pilots in New York Harbor. I made a few ship-movements with him, both in Long Island Sound and the Port of St. Croix, and can attest that he was an astonishingly canny ship-handler – though not immune to the odd mistake. The "Sam" in this song was Sam Sorenson, one of his partners. I will always thank Steve Sellors for keeping this song alive until we learned it.
Gordon – 12 string-guitar
I've got a partner by the name of Sam
That squarehead pilot's quite a man
Here's what he says when he gets in a jam
"Do something even if it's wrong"
Do something even it it's wrong
This'll make sense before too long
What am I gonna do with this crazy song
Do something even if it's wrong
The first thing Sam tries, it never work
The second thing only makes it worse
But the third, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth – something works
Do something even if it's wrong
The next time that you're up a tree
You just don't know what your future might be
Take a tip from Same and me
And do something, even if it's wrong
Traditional
I have sung this for about 40 years; can't remember where I learned t. The Boarding Party tracked it back through Robin Roberts who recorded it as "Love is Kind." It's also knows "Ee Awa," "Haul Awa" or possibly "I a bha," which Norman Kennedy says means "she that's gone" in Gaelic. Lucy Simpson gave me the "blessing" verse, which she made. I often sing this for my wife, Carol, when I'm touring alone.
Gordon – 12 string-guitar
O love is kind to the least of man
HIE AWA HIE AWA
Though he be but a drunken tar
HIE AWA HIE AWA
Far from land and the sight of man
O who will love the sailorman?
And awa and awa
HIE AWA, HIE AWA
And awa and awa
HIE AWA, HIE AWA
Take me to that star-eyed maid
O I was happy with her laid
In the comfort of her bed
There let me lie until I'm dead
Here's my blessing, let it be
May you love as she loved me
For live is kind to the least of men
Though he be but a drunken tar