“She writes the kind of songs people say nobody writes anymore. The kind of songs written by the greatest of the great singer-songwriters – songs with uniquely poetic lyric wed to gorgeous melodies, songs in which both the words and the music are equally inventive and inspired.”
the political is personal
On this “bookend” date, I thought it appropriate to launch my songwriting attempt to reconcile with political history still unfolding…
I didn’t know…
I didn’t know that I’d record this song. I didn’t know that I’d pair this footage with it.
I did know that my father was entering palliative care. I was on my way home to see him. I didn’t really understand that this would be my last bridge crossing, from Detroit to Windsor, while he was still alive. I saw that the rain was beautiful, on the windows of the cab.
For many years, Dad had picked me up from the Detroit airport.
I knew to say these things to him.
“on the line”
Years ago, my father told me of the summer he worked “on the line” at Chatham Steel — across from his father. Dad told me of the oil baths that his father would dunk the molten steel into — after the formed metal parts came out of a pounding press. My grandfather was very deaf, by the time I knew him, because of that pounding noise. Dad said that when he looked up one day, at that factory, and saw his father’s face drenched in oil an sweat, he knew “why he drank.”
braving making content
Exploring songs, by other writers, playing out, experimenting… all in service of making new work.
Always a vulnerable exercise — I can admit that it takes courage and a willingness to engage with the opinions of others. I’m so grateful I’m feeling strong enough to do it again.
for Dad
The varnish on the railing is worn away
where you put your hand as you brace yourself
to take the stairs.
It’s an exercise in will, through pain, that you do with
the effort of every weakening muscle in your body —
bone-on-bone in your knees.
I remember how strong you were.
One of my most visceral memories — as a child;
You took me in your arms
and skated me around the arena rink.
I felt the almost scary thrill of speed
as your muscles propelled us around that blur of white space —
your momentum making my skate blades glide hot over the ice
in a way that I had never felt before
and never since.
dinosaur wings
the sun streamed in like a white blanket of light
and you said — “how do we possibly do all the stuff we do
when we end up feeling so worn and torn?”
and the particles of dust floated in the air
like slow-moving meteors and tiny feathers suspended
but still moving
and I watched your breath propel them as you said
“it feels like the summer is over even though it’s just beginning.”
and we pondered how many dinosaur wings we’ve flown upon
not like magical dragons — but like the muck of oil that
they’ve turned into
and about how selfish we are — always wanting more.
none of it added up to much
no conclusion
no — ah-ha — no grand truth.
just the sun streaming in and then a simple question,
“what do you want to do now?”
- Dinosaur Wings hear paula read: Dinosaur Wings 1:00
Music Connection – New Music Critique
“McMath Is a straightup compelling artist whose work takes unexpected turns, from soothing to unsettling.”
Music Connection Review / Volume 34, No. 7 July 2010
there but for
A broken ear, matted greying fur, a scrapper of a dog flinches
a crouching jump — startling to look at me. Almost growling,
a tentative curl to his upper lip, his jaw tosses and chomps
on a morsel of detritus from beside the dumpster
in the Motel 6 parking lot. With starving purpose, he sniffs
and claws to hold and lick the inside surface of a grease-soaked
paper bag. I notice the panting breath of his ribcage,
gaunt and skeletal, beneath his thinning coat. The elegant tendons
of his back legs are poised, trembling, as he finishes, licks his chops,
and scrutinizes me again.
How long has it been? Will someone pick him up — or off?
From wild eyes, he concludes his last, long look at me, and turns
to lope away with a crooked, limping gait.
And in some distant recess of my inner ear I hear a whisper,
keep going, keep moving, don’t stop.
- there but for hear paula read: there but for 1:20
a letter from Dad
The first and last letter my father ever wrote me, when I was 16 — and my most prized possession.
