A Hot Night In August A hot night in August, nineteen eighty-two, on a Greyhound bus, going to Houston from Baton Rouge... Outside the bayou’s looking hazy in the fading light, but I can feel something in the atmosphere tonight. The driver’s getting interference on his radio, and somehow I understand what’s making his signal go. Like the echo of surface noise on some old shellac, or the scratching of a rockabilly phantom trying to get back. And I think I can hear the distant sound of a band from a roadhouse with an old beer sign and a broken bandstand – or is it just a trick of the Louisiana light, and the static in the atmosphere tonight? Down on the highway there’s Sal Paradise in a car. By the side of the road there’s an angel going wrong in a bar. The mystery plays of Mardi Gras acted out on a farm, and there’s blue demons kicking up an electrical storm. Last night in the Alamo Plaza, I dreamed that a man put the blues in a box, to keep them from uncaring hands. But you can’t keep them in, they found their way outside. and they’ve got into the atmosphere tonight. For so many years I wondered if it was all true, and here I am, here I am just passing through. Bus station lights in the faces of wandering souls – this could be Beaumont, Texas or hell, for all I would know. A hot night in August, nineteen eighty-two, on a Greyhound bus, going to Houston from Baton Rouge... outside there’s only the passing roadside lights, but I can feel something in the atmosphere tonight. (c) Words and music by Ray Templeton

Pepper In My Whisky When idle, weary feelings got me counting cracks on ceilings, when the minutes seem like hours, and the hours seem like days, I know it’s time for changes, time to turn it round the other way. Only a fool would sit and watch the hands, listen to the seconds tick away. I’d been getting slow and hazy, now I’m running wild and crazy, I put pepper in my whisky, drinking whisky in my sleep, but I won’t be looking back – it’s too late, and I’ve been caught that way before. The road might be unravelling, the ocean might be slipping from the shore. Nobody trying to cheat me, nobody trying to beat me, or trying to make me leave – I just made my plans to fly. I know that time is wasting, when they light a fire just to watch it smoke. ‘Goodbye’ is such a simple word, and so a simple word is all I wrote. Tired of walking Main Street – I’m going to set my thoughts free, duck down shady alleys, try the back roads on for size. I’m not looking for a highway paved with gold, or where water tastes like wine. I deal the cards myself and have to trust in them to pay me back in kind. So now I’m seizing days, making circles to be made – watch my passing shadow keep on moving to the end, because there’s nothing coming after, except the six white horses in a line. I’ll do my sleeping when I’m dead, and I’ll take my chances while I’ve got the time. (c) Words and music by Ray Templeton

What Happened It’s been a long time – how many years now? I’m losing count, maybe twenty-eight or thirty-nine, but I remember clearly, catching sight across a crowded room: early in the morning, on a long, clear night, a rainy afternoon. And so it happened, like something started, and I was travelling, on some kind of journey home. She told her story, sang it to me, walking in the warm sun’s light. I looked behind one second, then turned back and saw a cold and empty night. Voice like a songbird, face like an angel – what was her name? I don’t remember now, I try to snatch it, try to grab it, but in time I had to let it go. The closing of a door, slow turning of a page, now I don’t know. I've travelled east and I've travelled west, from the city’s heat to the river towns where the streets are cold. Sometimes I thought I saw her turn a corner or slip into a crowd. It’s like I always missed her, and it’s seems like I was dreaming now. But that’s all right, it doesn’t matter. The years go by, the changes ringing every day, so – things turned out the way I want, I got more than enough to live up to. What’s the good of fussing about what you did and what you didn’t do. I don’t get maudlin – I drink some red wine. A bit nostalgic, but I sing a song of no regrets and I’ll shake it, I can break it, yes but partner, I won’t let it fall. I’ll play it till the story’s done, then I'll sit my fool self down and say: “That’s all.” (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

Medication Blues I understand the arguments, I’ve heard every side of the debate. I’m not looking for a riot, my preference is something more sedate. But at the end of a day, I like something I can anticipate. Now, I’m not talking ‘bout some deep, dark night of the soul, and I really don’t have too many demons I need to control. But something in the night means the ritual measure has to flow. It’s just my recreation, not to do it until I fall – nor to keep on keeping on, until I hit some kind of a wall. But don’t you to tell me when to stop – that won’t mean nothing at all. That’s the one thing that I want to make plain – I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again... You can join me if you’ll just sit back and let me pour. I know what you think – it was only a short time ago – but now most of the time, I don’t go sneaking ‘round for any more. Some ice and a bottle takes me right to the same flashback – how it made it that bit easier to keep the expedition on track. A clink in a glass and all the complications fading to black. And there’s one thing that I want to make plain – I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again... You can join me if you’ll just sit back and let me pour – and you better believe it, I’m letting that old habit go, and this time I won’t be sneaking around for any more. (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

The Axe I was born on the feast day of dischords and wrong notes, learned how to fight back with mockery and bad jokes, soon knew to read the signs and to crack codes – some people speak and mean nothing at all. Like we’re still trying to solve some old dark mystery, trying to stop time, or trying to change history – once in a while you just take a little victory, when you know that you’re in it for the long, long haul. The water is rising, the temperature is dropping, the train’s jumped the tracks and it’s still not stopping, the noise over there sounds a lot like sobbing – and it feels like we’re waiting for the axe to fall. He only laughed when I called him a hater. Said: “Spoken like the true son of reds and traitors – bow down and pray to your lord and creator, it’s never too late to try to save your soul.” He opens his mouth, another lie spoken; smile on his face but the barrel’s still smoking. Says he’s got the truth, I say “You must be joking.” Talk about respect, I’ll show you control. The water is rising, the temperature is dropping, the train’s jumped the tracks and it’s still not stopping, the noise over there sounds a lot like sobbing – and it feels like we’re waiting for the axe to fall. Ask me what I think and I’ll tell you how I’m feeling – no need for sleight of hand, no need for double-dealing. Thought we were ahead, now it’s like we’re trailing – trying to unravel it, once and for all. There’s really no question, no dark mystery – no need to stop time, no need to change history, but it’s going to take more than one more little victory – everyone is someone, or we’re nothing at all. The water is rising, the temperature is dropping, the train’s jumped the tracks and it’s still not stopping, the noise over there sounds a lot like sobbing – and it feels like we’re waiting for the axe to fall. Like I come from a long line of trickery and trap doors, always wanted to shake things up on the top floor. It’s not just a question of settling old scores – you’ve got to be in it for the long, long haul. The cup’s stopped shaking, the dice are falling. I’m holding my breath until they stop rolling. Is the guy with the hourglass going to come calling? I’m still not ready for the curtain call. The water is rising, the temperature is dropping, the train’s jumped the tracks and it’s still not stopping, the noise over there sounds a lot like sobbing – and it feels like we’re waiting for the axe to fall. (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

Mythical Grit See those two, in the cold city street, smiling as they shuffle their snow-covered feet. He's chilly and he's huddled, 'cause he's got no winter coat, but it looks like he's happy 'bout those curious things that he wrote. He'll spin you a tale of where it all comes from - says he's been down the highway, been a long time gone – it's all mythical grit, but it's creating pearls, and now he's getting ready to cast them all over the world. Folkways, blue days, inspiration flows - the Anthology box is the new mother-lode. He dipped in a hand – just taking his choice, rummaged all around and pulled out a new kind of voice. He learned to listen, he learned to shout: to take it all in and then Sing Out!: 'bout the fires and the floods-all kinds of mysterious things: tales about outlaws, tales of ghost lovers and kings. Gaslight's spotlight, fame and acclaim, times are a-changing, they'll never be the same. All the players stage left been needing new lines to say - now here he comes with the Broadsides to fire away. See those two, in the cold city street - smiling as they shuffle their snow-covered feet. He's chilly and he's huddled, 'cause he's got no winter coat, but soon we'll be talking 'bout all the things that he wrote. (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

Christmas 1952 I hope it’s snowing somewhere – it never snows down here. But I’m still glad to see Christmas ‘cause ‘52 was not my year. But things are gonna be different – that’s what Mary Ann keeps telling me, in the year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and fifty three. Well, me and Mary Ann Miller, we’ll be out on the dance floor tonight. They’ll be playing that Western music underneath them old coloured lights. And we’ll be making our lives together – that’s how it’s gonna be – in the year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and fifty three. The guy in the vest at the gas pumps says: “I see Hank Williams been in trouble again.” And he smiles when he says: “He must be finished this time” But I say: “I don’t believe that old line. He’s just gonna get better and better – you can take that word from me – in the year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and fifty three.” Repeat first verse... (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

Home Tonight Not going to say ‘Sorry’, don’t need to atone. Been too long waiting – I’m sick and tired of being alone. It’s not about respect, about wrong or right – it’s just a question of if she’ll be going home tonight. I’ve been in all the stories, sung all the songs, I know a good hand to bet on, when my fortune comes along. I’m too old to argue, too weak to fight – I wish she’d tell me if she’ll be going home tonight. I know how it looks, but my only interest lies in us watching the sun come up, before we have to say goodbye. Been looking for pleasure, putting up with pain. I’m not going to stop – I know it all comes round again. Sometimes the dark can outrun the light, but it looks like she might not be going home tonight. But I still can’t tell from the look on her face – and I’m getting ill at ease, if this is what they call the chase: at first it said ‘no’, and then it said ‘might’. Maybe now she’ll say she won’t be going home tonight. I know how it looks, but my only interest lies in us watching the sun come up, before we have to say goodbye. The hall’s getting restless, the stage is set, for this new arrangement, the harmony, the big duet. I can’t see a thing, beyond the footlights, now she’s told me that she won’t be going home tonight. (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

Changed My Mind Would have been so easy, would have been so sweet – a nod of the head, and in a single heartbeat, I could be riding so high in the evening, and feeling so fine. I was going to do it, but something must have changed my mind. Don’t say it didn’t matter, don’t say I didn’t care, but it seemed for one second I could go anywhere – I could blame it on the music, I could say it’s all down to the wine. I was going to do it, but something must have changed my mind. On one side, a voice that’s telling me: “Let it drop... let it drop” On the other side, I hear whispering – “Don’t stop.. don’t stop” A quick calculation, a fast about-face, as if some kind of argument changes the case. We all have our price and it seemed like this might have been mine. I was going to do it, but something must have changed my mind. Almost a fool, almost gone wrong, almost a very different song – I just had to decide if I was going to step over that line. I was going to do it, but something must have changed my mind. On one side, a voice that’s telling me: “Let it drop... let it drop” On the other side, I hear a whispering – “Don’t stop... don’t stop” Heading down the road, could this be, at last, the time I find out that I’m going too fast? But there was something ahead and I could see it was a warning sign. I was going to do it, but something must have changed my mind. (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

Saints and Sinners (i.m. Pete Seeger) When I got back to the racks, it was like nothing had been moved. I found the disc and I blew the dust away from ‘round the grooves. Then the needle hit, and as the song began, the sound was old and new, the ages slipping through my hands. I listened to those tales about the saints, about the sinners, about Pretty Boy Floyd the outlaw, about the buffalo skinners. From ‘way out there I heard it high and lonesome one more time, and as a freight train went rolling 'cross the Fayette County line, I heard politics and poetry, and there was something else I heard – maybe a prospect of liberty, whenever it seemed to be dead. By the mighty Monongahela, rushing bank to bank; the great steel hammer ringing was the sound of a free black man. Go to sleep you weary young boy, dream about the days, if you could see your way ahead, I know you’d be amazed. The lady’s wicked sermons, they meant nothing to me, but that didn’t matter – in the battle now, I knew which side I’d be. We'd laugh about his story of a half-hitch wedding band, but when the people raised their voices to whatever words he sang, I heard politics and poetry, and there was something else I heard – maybe a prospect of liberty, whenever it seemed to be dead. The run-out groove was pointing down the road I’d take from there, to the people who’d be with me in my lifetime love affair: the singers on street corners, or in joints along the way, on the route to heaven or to hell, like the jakeleg preachers say. I heard politics and poetry, and there was something else I heard – I heard a prospect of liberty, whenever it seemed to be dead. (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

The Ghost Of A Chance You came to me through the shadow and darkness of a long, cold night. You filled my soul like I’d never known, turned my face back to the light. It doesn’t seem so very long: it was all going right, but now it’s all going wrong. I should have known that I didn’t stand the ghost of a chance. Now it’s like I’ve been haunted, like I was possessed, and not trying to be free. The mists are parting, I’m finding my way, but I know how hard it will be. I feel your touch like a chill, and when I remember you, I guess that I always will. I should have known that I didn’t stand the ghost of a chance. Trapped by illusion, blinded by love, it’s so easy to say. It’s not how it seems, I was nobody’s fool, I chose to take that way: trying so hard to do, and to be, whatever you wanted me to. I should have known that I didn’t stand the ghost of a chance. Didn’t see it coming, my head in the clouds – won’t be the first time for me. If I’d listened to your actions speak louder than words, I’d have known how it was going to be. Maybe I should hate the spell that you cast, but I know that I don’t. Aside from the phantoms that visit me now, I’ll go back to being alone. I’m not saying you’ve been telling me lies, more like I’ve turned you over and I’ve played the other side – and the song that I hear tells me I didn’t stand the ghost of a chance. I should have known that I didn’t stand the ghost of a chance. (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton

National Steel Guitar On a carnival day in my home town, it all started for me, with an old man playing the blues outside a bar. He played silver notes on silver strings, and I knew right then that all I ever wanted was a National steel guitar. Well some kids dream about a college degree, or of bringing up kids of their own and some just want the keys to their first car. But I soon knew I wasn’t like other kids, cause I didn’t want any of that – all I ever wanted was a National steel guitar. Buddy was the craziest kid on our street, but I didn’t care about that, ‘cause Buddy’s daddy was a kind of a country star. He once shook the hand of Lefty Frizzell, but what meant so much more to me... he owned a 1937 National steel guitar. A friend of a friend was looking for spare parts in a junkyard outside of town, but the way I heard it, he didn’t get too far. He was looking for a fender for his Oldsmobile so the story goes, but he came out carrying two National steel guitars. So you can have your vintage Stella and your Tennessean Gretsch, your Washburn, Martin and Guild. And don’t talk to me about a Framus or a Yamaha. Telecaster, Rickenbacker, Gibson Les Paul, they don’t mean nothing to me – all I ever wanted was a National steel guitar. (c) Words & Music by Ray Templeton