The Devaluation of Music

"Music feeds the soul, but not the family." Brian Hilligoss, 2010

Ten Questions

“Lord, why am I on such a short leash?”
Only you establish the length.

“But what does that mean Lord?”
Follow the path I have laid so clearly and the length becomes infinite.

"Infinite?"
Eternal.

“But there are those, Lord, who attain success, fame, goals, and riches who don’t follow this path. Those who don’t believe in you. Those that defy your existence.”
Envy only your own path. Their path is not yours. What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?

“Some seem so ambitious, Lord. So determined. So driven.”
These things are finite. They are not substitutes for faith.

“Lord, I feel so stuck. Why don’t you give me a break?”
Only you control this suffering.

“Suffering?”
Vanity and fear are your only obstacles.

“So Lord, there are conditions I have to meet before I can achieve success?”
Freedom awaits.

“Lord, why do you haunt me so?”
Fear not. Only with your eyes and your heart open are you haunted.

“But Lord, why are you always - there?
Because I am always here.

Roger and Bobo

“Every day is Saturday for dog.”

I imagine Roger Miller sitting on the steps of his house, sipping or smoking or both when he came up with that line. Probably before noon, with a hint of dread in his brain while contemplating Monday responsibility. Not sure if ol’ Roger even made it up before noon. Most likely, that was when he was just going down most days. But this particular morning, I imagine him turning up his cup with the last sip of black coffee just before forging reality in the midst of noticing a yard dog nodding off for a mid-morning nap.

“Dang, everyday IS Saturday for a dog.” A little scratching, a little food, some water, a large personal gift while taking a reckless romp through the roses. Not that Roger would spend his time on Saturday working through this specific agenda, although he might, but the point is – freedom. To do what you want, when you want to do it. Guilt-free. Suit yourself – lazy or productive. Be Saturday.

A few weeks ago I wrote about “Searching for Summer.” Maybe this entry should be titled, “Searching for Saturday.” When I was out on my own, in my twenties, I thought that maybe Saturday, somewhere along the line, had moved to Sunday. Actually Sunday was still Sunday, but Saturday was packed in there too. Over time – in our world, in my world – I have compressed fun and freedom. To the point – where either I don’t have either or I don’t notice them.

As you may catch on – I write, from time to time, about being shaped by run-ins with random taxi drivers. Soon, I will write about the taxi driver in Athens, Greece that quizzed me about freedom. That scenario has played out a couple of times – freedom - taxis.

Back to searching for Saturday. Maybe it only really existed if you were a kid. Cartoons started at 7:00am. I knew they were over for the day when American Bandstand came on at noon. Followed by Don Cornelius and “So-o-o-o-o-u-u-u-l Traaiinn” at 12:30. As I became a teenager – I traded Rocky and Bullwinkle for Dick and Don. But still unmistakably Saturday was Saturday.

Usually, an entire box of Frosted Flakes would meet their doom along with a half gallon of Farmer’s Dairy whole milk while sitting in front of the boobtube. I am not sure how many flakes entered my mouth in those years, but back then I had not discovered peanut butter for breakfast. I would pour the white creamy whole milk on top of the flakes until they would float just a bit. Wait for a minute or so until they became thoroughly soaked. Then with my Jethro-spoon I would begin shoveling – letting the milk drain down my throat as I held the flakes tightly in my mouth. Then chomp, chomp, chomp, like a line outta Poke Salad Annie” – I would grind the Tiger’s delicacy into something more swallow-able. Mmmmm…Saturday.

I am grateful that I didn’t have me for a parent. I would be all over that ‘entire box of cereal” thing. “Save some for next Saturday. You don’t need a whole box today!” But then again – there was only one of me, not three Jethroes like I have produced.

Sweet sixteen. Driving baby. Saturday night was party night. A night to spread your wings. Especially if you were raised in a family of heathens like I was. No church – just “Gospel Jubilee with Bill Hefner” on the tube each Sunday – cleansing our souls with the Word in song. Which I tried my best to sleep though.

But Saturday night…dates with Darlene, playing music at the Wildwood Music Hall or cruising Main in my step-father’s 1976 orange Camaro with t-tops, Glass Pack mufflers, and pin striping. I made that car look good...

Some Saturday nights were spent at the Archdale Soda Shop working the curb (11206 N Main St, Archdale, NC). Delivering orders of “The Special” (2 hotdogs, fry, small coke - .99). to locals sitting in their car awaiting greasy fare from charming teenage boys.

Through the years, no doubt, Saturdays have changed. From being a day of domestic catch-up to just an extension of nine to five. But now - hey are definitely different. Less recreation. More work and more worry.

And even more than Saturdays evolving into something “different,” the idea of Saturday is missing in the world around me. The idea of Saturday used to be filled with the smiling anxiety of relief. We work too hard, multi-task to our detriment, stress too often and search for pharmaceutical means of relief. From diabetes, high blood pressure, anxiety, depression, and obesity we go on searching desperately for a bottle of Saturday.

But Saturday, simply, is a state of mind that requires – action. The action to stop and smell the roses. Bobo did. Just before he peed on them.

Happy Mother's Day Bobbie

A few years ago - I wrote a song called "The Lord, My Shepherd, and Her." I had been listening to Johnny Cash's "Hurt" pretty much nonstop for 3 days. And on this particular day - I was driving a rental car near Las Vegas through Lee Canyon and Mt. Charleston. Being mindful. Listening. Profound. Painful. Honest.

My mother is similar to Johnny Cash in the pain I believe that she has waded through during her life. One overwhelmingly painful experience for her was losing her mother. I have often thought that she would have just as soon packed in the day Nana passed.

I pulled the car over near Lee Canyon. Turned off the CD player and began to walk amidst the cool fresh alpine air. Free from the hubbub of the Vegas Strip, I came to large rock overlooking Nevada and I sat. Quietly. Mindfully. The haunting lyrics of "Hurt" still overshadowing my thoughts. It's lyrics and tone depict sobering regret. The kind that may rush over a person at the end of their life. I am sure my mom has plenty of guilt. It is embedded into her southern psyche deep and constant with the strength of an anvil anchor. With those thoughts, I wrote the beginning words of "The Lord, My Shepherd, and Her."


I called Bobbie today to tell her Happy Mother's Day. I am grateful that she was there. I know life has often been tough for her. But I do realize that when that sad day comes for real - she will be headed home to be with The Lord and Nana.

The Lord, My Shepherd, and Her
(Brian Hilligoss)

Oh my journey, has been long but it’s true
And oh my eyes, how they hurt
But it’s my yearning that sees me through
To the Lord, My Shepherd and Her

The Lord he waits on me all the day
And Mother, each day how she’d work
Keeping me safe and from going astray
From the Lord, My Shepherd and Her

Chorus:
Father, dear Father, oh how I see you so clear
Father, dear Father, feeling you drawing me near
Oh how I’ll hold you so dear

Now the angels they sing with their voices on high
I’m so close I can almost make out the words
And there they all stand with their arms open wide
With the Lord, My Shepherd, and Her

Chorus:
Jesus, oh Jesus, oh how I see you so clear
Jesus, oh Jesus, feeling you drawing me near
Oh how I’ll hold you so dear.

Oh my journey has been long, but so true
From those who gave me my birth
But I’m returning to start anew
With the Lord, My Shepherd, and Her

Chorus:
Mother, dear Mother, oh how I see you so clear
Mother, dear Mother, feeling you drawing me near
Oh how I’ll hold you so dear
Now, how you hold me so dear

©2005 Brother Briar Music, Inc.

This tune can be purchased at iTunes along with Johnny Cash's "Hurt"

It's been a long, cold, lonely winter...

Got Haunting?

Howdy Blogland.

I have been surprised at the amount of interactivity I have experienced on this blog over the last 2 weeks. Seems as though folks have been very curious about "Jesus is Haunting Me" - what the music is like, why I wrote it, had I recorded it yet, etc.

Read the posting prior to this for the "back story" and lyrics.

I have to say some of you have been mighty opinionated as to how this should be treated. Which I take as a compliment that folks are making it their own. I describe to some that it is a sassy rocker - a bit of a rebellious thang that describes my annoyance with the omnipresence of the Holy Ghost when I have other things on the agenda.

I started jotting notes for this tune a couple of years ago, but only finished it up in the last 6 months - primarily, because I "live" this song. I live "in" this song. If I completed it - action would be in order. Maybe I have crossed that bridge.

Anyway - as I described the feel of the song to those asking - they seemed disappointed. I think they were looking for something more - thoughtful. Something deeper than "ticked off." Something more - well - haunting.

You guys win. I have changed the music to suit the listener this time.

I plan to make this blog more interactive in the future. I value your opinions and want to hear from you.

Below is a rough demo. Tell me what you think.

Brian


Jesus is Haunting Me by bhilligoss

Steadfast Haunting

“I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears…

…Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."

From “The Hound of Heaven”
Francis Thompson – 1889


Francis Thompson was an English Poet, often homeless and confessed opium addict who died of tuberculosis in 1907 at the age of forty-seven. “The Hound of Heaven,” his most famous poem, is an autobiographical account of how the Holy Ghost relentlessly pursued his wayward soul. 186 lines beautifully describe the struggle, conflict, betrayal, and his eventual surrender to The Hound’s steadfast love.

I ran across this poem about 2 years after I started my own careful consideration of these hauntings. Acknowledgment of the “situation” leads to more relentlessness. More banging. More baiting. More bugging. More begging. Polite persistence awaits me with an echoed voice reminiscent of Rex Allen Sr. and a Godly presence that only Christ, himself, could pull off.

Here is my version of Mr. Thompson’s account. I’ve had a difficult time finding an audience for this song.


Jesus is Haunting Me

Jesus is haunting me, Jesus is wanting me
Jesus is preying on me, he’s haunting me

Every turn, don’t learn, ignore all the friction
I’m against the grain, feel no pain, and hide my religion
I’m a fake it til I make it and fair weather Christian at best

Every look, on the hook, he’s showin me the good book
In my face, side the head, he’s hiding under my bed
A waitin’ and a baitin for the right time to reel me in

Jesus is haunting me, Jesus is wanting me
Jesus is preying on me, he’s haunting me

In the shadows, in the yard, on the hood of my car
He’s lurks and he works overtime chasin me far
I’m shaken, and awakened, he is scarin’ the hell out of me

Now I’m on the line, this time, everything is mighty fine
No doubt, devil’s out the first round, last bout
Oh Lord, My Lord, Thanks for being there for me

Jesus is haunting me, Jesus is wanting me
Jesus is praying for me…
He’s wanting me. He’s wanting me.

He’s haunting me.

Brian Hilligoss © 2008