You learn to fall, then you learn to fly
I’ve been a lifetime learning, but I always got by
Living in pain isn’t living in vain
I’m used to losing and there’s so much to gain
Your love’s a mountain that I’m learning to climb And it’s a long way down but somehow I don’t mind I know the dangers but I don’t want to stop It’s worth the fear of falling for the view from the top
Dawn rings the changes from a crawl to a run
Out of the shadow and into the sun
It’s not surprising if the light hurts our eyes
But if loving you is crazy it’s too late to be wise
Sometimes a voice inside whispers “Take care of yourself:
What makes you think you’re the one to take care of anyone else?”
All I can say is, “Don’t care if I fall:
She’s got the best part of me – she might as well take it all.”
You’ll say I’m crazy, but lady, no joke
I’m scared of busting but I’m going for broke
And I don’t know if I’ll fly or I’ll fall
But living without you is no life at all.
This is a song I haven’t really thought about since the 70s, but it turned up when I started to (try to) rationalize my boxes and folders of lyrics, verse and prose, so I put it straight down as-is.
Backup:
Between the bar and the dance floor / Thinking that maybe
I might just catch up / To my accelerated lady
Why don’t you keep on dancing? / Dance on by
Watching you at a party / Too drunk to see
What it might take / To make you come and talk to me
But you’d better keep on dancing / Dance on by
What makes you think / I should apologise
For once drowning / In those bedroom eyes
Why don’t you keep on dancing? / Dance on by
Lights run hot / But the bottle’s not yet dry
With a little luck and whisky I’ll forget / even your name by midnight
I previously recorded a fairly polished version of this, complete with double-tracked vocals and bouzoukis. (See below.)
This is a quicker-and-dirtier solo version that has, however, the words as I sing them now…
Here’s the older version (remastered).
And here are the lyrics.
Two isn’t company, three is a crowd Two is a silence, three is too loud Two is a silence gets harder to break But three always leaves one left over
Three into two isn’t good for the head It’s no problem in math, but it’s bad news in bed And it’s one for an ace and two for a pair
But three always leaves one left over
When we’re alone somehow he’s always there You say it’s the same when you two are the pair
So it’s one for sorrow and two for joy But three always leaves one left over
All the shouting is over and dead Somehow there’s nothing much else to be said And it’s one for the money and two for the show But three always leaves one left over
Two isn’t company, three is a crowd Two is a silence, three is too loud Two is a silence gets harder to break But three always leaves one left over
Full lyric, MP3 and more information on the Rough Music page
They hang the man and flog the woman
That steal the goose from off the common,
But let the greater villain loose
That steals the common from the goose…
Remembered (no doubt imperfectly) from the singing of Fred Jordan, whom I met/heard many times in the 60s and 70s. I’m thinking of including this on the Housman settings project, since Fred was indeed a Shropshire Lad.
Another from my autumn 2019 flurry of lyric writing and editing.
Audio capture from a video:
Backup:
Anywhere (words and music copyright David Harley, 2019)
I could catch a bus to anywhere
And never think of missing this old town
Instead I’m sitting in a bar right here
Scared to play my last go-round
Last dream smashed and short of cash
Nursing one last beer
Hoping for a bus to anywhere
Anywhere at all but here
I could take a train to anywhere
Shake this country dirt from off my shoes
Turn my face away from nowhere
Trading up to city views
Had enough of you and all you put me through
Pretty sure you’ve had enough of me
Time to take a train to anywhere
Anywhere I know that you won’t be
I could hitch a ride to anywhere
And surely I won’t miss this empty town
Right now I’m sitting in this tired old bar
All set to play my last go-round
Last dream smashed and short of cash
Nursing one last warm beer
Maybe I can catch a ride to anywhere
Anywhere at all that isn’t here
In making-the-tune-up-as-I-go-along mode. The lyric isn’t quite finished either. But going in the right direction.
Backup:
We never will have Paris (David Harley) (c) 2019
I know that this is going nowhere
But a honeymoon in Heartbreak Hotel
Yet it seems that all I’ve done is think about you
For longer years than I have words to tell
For longer years than I have words to tell
Sometimes I catch myself hoping
Just once more to see you smile
In spite of all the harsh words passed between us
And all these long and weary miles
And all these long and weary miles
Perhaps you’re on your own tonight
Somewhere out there in the rain
Caught between the raindrops, still hoping
You’ll never be this sad again
You’ll never be this sad again
Again and again along the highway
We kissed at the turning of the road
Till somewhere I forgot to say goodbye
Walking down some sleepy highway on my own
Walking down some sleepy highway on my own
I know we never will have Paris
Or even one more foggy day in London Town
I wonder if you ever wonder
If the going up was worth the coming down
This song was originally inspired by a very extroverted old lady I met in the late 70s, but somehow as the song developed, the backstory got darker. Which is fine by me: I’ve certainly known old people who were far more miserable than this, and one or two of them crept into the background of the story. The tune is a heavily adapted mash-up of two traditional melodies. When I was singing it quite often, I used the well-known Dives and Lazarus tune, and when I was working with fiddler Pete Wilkes we used to follow it with a guitar/fiddle version of the tune and the slip jig The Butterfly.
I stopped singing it for a while after a couple of very unpleasant people told me I shouldn’t be singing such a miserable song, but it so happens that I don’t believe all songs should be happy-clappy. Which won’t surprise you if you’ve listened to many of my songs… So I really don’t need anyone else to tell me what a drag it is, thanks all the same. But if you actually like it or even have constructive suggestions, I’d be very happy to hear from you.
Backup:
The Weekends [are the worst] (Harley)
The world has changed since I was born in 1902.
Two World Wars have swept away the world that we once knew:
Two brothers and three sisters , long dead and gone to earth
Our lives were often hard, but now the weekends are the worst.
My old man died just 20 years past.
His health was never good since the Kaiser had him gassed,
But in the end it was cancer that carried him off so fast
I miss him all the time, and the weekends are the worst.
You might say I was lucky, though we never had much cash,
But we had 50-odd good years, more than I’d dare to ask.
I brought up three lovely kids, though another died at birth:
I miss them all a lot, and the weekends are the worst.
I’ve a son in Melbourne, he’s been there since ’62:
I’ve never seen his wife or kids, just a snapshot or two.
My eldest died in the last lot, on a convoy to Murmansk:
It still brings tears to my eyes, and the weekends are the worst.
I’ve a daughter in Glasgow: she writes when she has time,
But that’s a long way off, and I’ve not seen her for a while.
She’s got a son in the army, just been posted to Belfast:
We worry all the time, and the weekends are the worst.
My friends are mostly dead, or else they’ve moved like me
When the street I was brought up in was pulled down in ’63.
Sixty years I’d lived there, child, girl and wife:
Sheltered housing’s not so bad but it can be a lonely life.
Especially since Jim died: we weren’t too bad at first
But now I’m on my own the weekends are the worst.
There’s the club once a week, though it’s just from seven till nine,
And since my fall they only fetch me down from time to time.
There’s my knitting and the TV, for what that might be worth,
But I miss the company, and the weekends are the worst.
A few years ago my wife and I were watching a TV programme about Sting’s ‘The Last Ship Sails’ project. When they played a track called (I think) ‘Sky Hooks & Tartan Paint’, she said “That’s your song!” It wasn’t of course, but the first verse did have a startling resemblance to the first verse of ‘Long Stand’, both starting off with the ‘hazing‘ of a lad on his first day at work, though mine went on to make a political point. However, mine was written back in the early 80s for a revue directed by Margaret Ford, and subsequently released on a cassette album, so I’m pretty sure it came first…
This version was remastered – as best I could – from a damaged master tape, and while there’s still some noise, it’s made the transfer better than most of my tracks from CentreSound. All rights reserved.
Backup copy:
The day I started work, the foreman said to me,
“I’ve another job for you when you’ve finished brewing tea:
Go down to the stores and when you find old Stan,
Tell him Harry sent you for a long stand.”
I got a long stand all right: I stood an hour or more,
Till Stan got tired of the joke and sent me back to the shop floor.
Well I didn’t think it funny, but I laughed and held my peace,
Even when they sent me back for a tin of elbow grease.
Still I did my bit, till I was pensioned off in ’69
From apprentice to foreman, all down the production line.
Many’s the lad I’ve sent myself when things were getting dull
For a can of striped paint or a pound of rubber nails.
But the joke they’re playing now, I just don’t think it’s fair:
Even when you get your ticket, the work just isn’t there.
The safest job in England is handing out the dole:
For every man that gets a job they turn away a hundred more.
For now the work is scarce, again, the queues are building up.
The streets are full of lads and lasses looking out for jobs;
But when you’ve just left school, you hardly stand a chance
They’re sending every lad in England for a long stand.
They say that if you’ve got the gumption you can do just as you please.
They say you’ll do all right with a bit of elbow grease;
But with a hundred out for every job, it’s few that stand a chance
They’re sending every lad in England for a long stand
They’re sending every lass in England for a long, long stand
Back in the days when Britain had industries, it was customary for the older blokes to send apprentices to fetch curious items such as a can of striped paint or some rubber nails. The lucky lad who was sent for a long stand was liable to be left standing at the counter for a half an hour or longer while the storeman went off for a cup of tea and a chuckle. This song was written for a revue called “Nice if you can get it” directed by the actress Margaret Ford in the early 1980s. The guitar was tuned to D-modal, to give it a folksy Martin Carthy/Nic Jones feel. But it still sounds more like David Harley to me…
I once had exchange of snailmail – it was before my internet days) – with the former Labour MP Joe Ashton, who mentioned the sport of apprentice-hazing in his column for one of the tabloids, describing some similar japes and a particularly vigorous retaliation involving tacks and doggy-do. I bet you don’t get that kind of hazing in merchant banks and call centres.
Wheal Alice Music 