The Making of Snow Plow Blues

Rude songs have been with us for centuries. They are nothing new. But how did the Snow Plow Blues come about? And why is it so blue?

Well, it all happened like this.

I was messing around on my guitar trying to come up with a way to make a 12 bar blues in E sound more interesting, and I found that if I twiddled my left pinkie around it sounded quite good. Changing the chords of E, A and B to flatter or sharper or minor or major or whatever the technical music term is, by just pressing my pinkie on different strings, it meant I could almost get a melody out of it while still playing the other strings in the main chords.

Then I had to come up with some lyrics. As it happened, a few flakes of snow were drifting down while I left the house, got in the car and drove up the hill to my English lesson which takes about 20 minutes, and apart from keeping my eyes on the road there's not much to stop me coming up with the lyrics of a song, which had to sound a bit like the first few notes of the guitar riff. Hence the rather lame flat lines:

Snow drifts down

To the ground

I then thought, well, it's a blues song, so it should be about a woman leaving a man, right? But what kind of man, and what's it got to do with snow? And the rest as they say is history, or at least, in the past. The original title of the song was “Lament of the Snow Plow Driver” but in my mind it was always the “Snow Plow Blues”.

It was interesting to me how a broken heart might affect a person's productivity, and if that person's productivity affected a whole town then that might – ahem – 'snowball', leaving the protagonist to get even more frustrated by the problems that he himself has created.

The drive up to my English Lesson (teaching not learning) was through a forest, which probably lead to the lines:

Every winter, forests die

Cold dead fingers scratch the sky

which in later verses I was hoping to change to:

scratch this guy

but in the end I just didn't have time to repeat the verse.

The next verse I wrote was:

Goodbye Christmas, See you New Year

All I want is another beer

which is supposed to symbolise the lack of enjoyment in winter festivals due to a broken heart.

The chorus, if you can call it that, I wanted to have words that ended in  '-tion' because I had a feeling that would give me plenty of rhymes to choose from (it does – there's hundreds) and a kind of 'one thing leads to another' feel.

No adoration equals no motivation,

no motivation means no remuneration.

And in the intervening lines I felt like telling a slightly different story, as if something else was going on at the same time. In the first chorus

In this town there is no place to go,

Because of all the f%^&n snow.

It seemed right/different/interesting to shuffle these two couplets together, although I'm unsure if this is clear for the listener.

As the song is supposed to be from a jilted American snowplow driver's point of view, I wanted to use appropriate (or rather - inappropriate) language. I also thought this would make it more amusing, because snow is usually idyllic and romantic, but as we found out from the Beast from the East last year, after a while it just becomes a pain in the ass. And I kind of wanted this bad language to escalate throughout the song, culminating in the lines:

All my extremities are turning to ice

And that's including my f%^^$n d*£k

Which is refreshingly politically incorrect, yet it cuts to the core of a jilted male lover's frustration. It's not just about a broken heart, it's also about a now defunct and unnecessary body part.

But I thought it would be funnier to do a near miss on the 'f*&^n  d^£k' line and slowly morph into an overly sentimental and romantic coda (or whatever it's called) with no drums and minimal guitar, to contrast the rest of the negativity in the song and again make the 12 bar sequence a bit different. The first one was originally:

Did I ever tell you, did I ever tell you, that I love you?

Did I never mention that I would never place another above you?

Just for fun, because I liked this one so much, I did it again off of 'salt':

All I ever wanted, all I ever wanted, was you to love me.

The only words I could think of to rhyme with wanted, were daunted and haunted. 

No need to look so daunted, this ol' house isn't haunted.

Apart from me.

Now I needed another verse with some slightly supernatural comedy undertones, because I had three choruses with escalating bad language, so the last one I put in was

The pipes are frozen, the heating is off

There's funny noises coming down from the loft

which could be because of ghosts or because of dodgy central heating. And it was all going a bit 'Sixth Sense' and I had to make a decision : did I want it to culminate like he's a ghost with a frozen penis, or a living snowplow driver with escalating bad language.

In the end I chose the escalating bad language, which meant the ghostly verse, chorus and coda had to go in the middle. I decided this change after already recording the song, and I felt like kicking myself, but then I realised I could just cut and paste the vocals in Garageband with minimal disruption! Ha ha!

The final problem I still had to wrestle with was that the song as it stands was too crude to play to my mother or my son (or most people, I thought). I hoped West Lothian Writers would help me tone it down a bit last night, but actually they seemed to like the song as it was!

The therapeutic rewards of writing, practicing, playing, recording and publishing a dirty blues song - even one that has been pretty much ignored by everyone - have been enormous and I would recommend it to anyone.

And without further ado, here it is :

The Snow Plow Blues

Snow drifts down, to the ground

All my stuff is just lyin around.

I'm so untidy in my dressin' gown.

Since you left me, all I do is frown.

Every winter, forests die.

Cold dead fingers scratch the sky.

No more honey means no more money now, cos

since you been gone, I can't drive my plow

No adoration equals, no motivation

This town there is no place to go.

No motivation means no remuneration

Because of all the fuckin snow.

The pipes are frozen, the heating is off.

There's funny noises coming down from the loft.

I can see my breath now, I'll catch my death, I know.

Ask my reflection, “Why did you have to go?”

No adoration equals, no motivation

this town has ground to a halt

No motivation means no remuneration

because there is no fuckin sal -

-all I ever wanted, all I ever wanted, was you to love me.

No need to look so daunted, this ol' house isn't haunted.

Apart from me.

Goodbye Christmas, see you New Year.

All I want is another beer.

I'll drink my sorrows, no more tomorrows, now.

Since you been gone, I can't start my plow.

No fornication equals poor circulation.

This town is making me sick.

All my extremities are turnin to ice

And that's includin my fuckin di -

-id I ever tell you, did I ever tell you, that I love you?

Did I never mention that I would never place another, above you?

Snow drifts down, to the ground

All my stuff is just lyin around.

Words & Music © Chris R Young 2019. All rights reserved.

Passing By

words

explore boundaries

divulge secrets

promulgate untruths

bounce like seeds on

tarmacadam

the doorbell rings

i put down my pen and look up

who could that be

the house is silent

afternoon sun streams by on its way

somewhere else

the clock ticks

my heart beats

i gaze at the window

a shadow moves

i lean back

steam rises from my coffee

mixing with dust motes

caffeinating them

they zip off

elsewhere

the doorbell rings again

i jump as my worst fears are confirmed

i knew it would ring again

and it did

the postie with a parcel

a neighbour in a nightie

a boy with a beagle

a politician from a party

possible visitors run through my mind 

en route to

another destination

my mouth is dry

i look down at my pen strewn

haphazardly

across my recent attempt to

murder a poem

the blood is on my hands

my finger prints on the weapon

i wrote my name at the top

for god's sake

what was i thinking

maybe if i just 

knock knock

who's there 

i gasp

don't know yet

could be anyone

i note their change of tactic from

door bell to wood knock 

with some trepidation

maybe if i just remain

still

they'll go on their way

to another place

© chris young 2019

image credit : https://writingcooperative.com/what-can-i-write-about-998a13b019ff

The May Gollum Video

It's not easy being a non-conformist. It means I often adopt unpopular positions and play devil's advocate just for the heck of it. But for the purposes of writing practice, let's take a look at a recent video that's making waves on social media at the moment.

The May Gollum video, featuring Andy Serkis, the original actor who outstandingly portrayed Gollum in the Lord of the Rings trilogy and much more, has been doing the rounds since Dec 9 2018.

I just want to start off by saying, I agree with the main goal of this video, which I believe to be to encourage a People's Vote - in other words a second EU referendum. I think this is a good idea, because it's such a huge, important contentious issue and a lot of things have come to light since the last one, that many people will probably have changed their minds.

Secondly, I have absolute respect for Andy Serkis, the Lord of the Rings is hands down one of my favourite books and movie franchises. It is a wonderful life's work by many people, not least JRR Tolkien.

Thirdly, this video is very effective and emotionally jarring because of that. Quite shocking actually, due to the ties we have with the Lord of the Rings films and a huge nod must be given to Andy for an excellent and faithful performance for a political cause he must believe in enough to reprise the role.

Fourthly, I myself sometimes turn to ridiculing those I feel are in the wrong, regarding Barclays and Fracking, for example.

So why do I feel something here is a bit off? Something that prohibits me from jumping wholeheartedly behind this video and spreading it like wildfire? I've already stated I agree with its message, I appreciate it as a valid method for influencing the people, it's an interesting, non-violent creative attack using humour which I'm all for. So why does it stick in my craw?

I'll be honest, I voted Leave. The reason is simply that because I believed in the UK being able and better suited to make its own decisions, and I wanted my vote to matter more. That was the core of my thinking. I had/have nothing against immigration policies. I had/have nothing against Europe or Europeans. I just suspected that we were handing over the reins to a third party when we should be holding them ourselves. 

I held no great love for the Euro, as I missed the times when you could travel Europe and see lira, francs, drachma, punts, and lamented that those cultural characteristics will be lost forever. 

Also, the EU didn't seem to be working for Greece, who had lost the ability to fluctuate its own currency and was now dependent on loans. (This is disagreed with here but monetary policy inflexibility is cited as a reason on wikipedia.) As will be obvious I don't know much about economics, but this sounded like a problem. If it could happen to Greece, perhaps it could happen to us. Other European countries, such as Norway and Switzerland, are not in the EU, so living apart from the EU must be possible, so why shouldn't we?

That was my thinking back then. But as I will point out, things have come to light.

Incidentally, my humble videography company was commissioned to create a video privately regarding reasons for leaving the EU, which can be seen here:

To be honest I had not really thought about it either way by the time we made this video, but as a media business, I wasn't going to turn away money to do a job. I would have gladly accepted payment to do a 'Remain' video as well, but no-one asked me to. I took professional pride in this video. A man had something to say and wanted us to be his mouth piece, which I appreciated and respected. He made valid points and I was no doubt swayed by them.

The morning of the result I was actually surprised that we'd won.

But many things have come to light since the vote.

A. The Northern Ireland Border problem.
I confess, I never thought about this before voting and now think this may be a good reason to change my mind if there's a People's Vote.

B. The EU has implemented a lot of laws to help and protect the environment, which I'm beginning to suspect the UK may not actually stick to post Brexit.

C. I've sadly lost faith in the UK being able to make the best decisions for itself and the planet. 

But back to the May Gollum video. I've identified five points, five areas where I find myself personally irked by it.

Point 1. The video is well directed, shot and acted and it scares the hell out of me. But one thing that puts me off is that making fun of mental illness, ie multiple personality disorder, is basically what is going on here. Something with this weapon of choice does not sit right. Mental health is a huge issue with several friends, family and clients I know struggling in their own different ways. If we go around doing Gollum impressions of every person we don't like, who is different, who is struggling, what message is this giving out to people?

Point 2. Next. Forevermore Gollum, that fantastic, tragic, wonderful, terrible creature in the Lord of the Rings, who basically (spoiler alert) saved Middle Earth due to having a penchant for finger food, the subject of creative art featured in book and film form, will remind me of Theresa May, Brexit, Conservatives, and politics. And it cannot be undone. The connection wasn't there before, but now it is. I'll watch my Lord Of The Rings Special Edition DVD Box Set over New Year, look at Gollum and think, 'Oh yeah, Theresa May and Brexit, how messed up was all that?' Something treasured and cherished, that Andy himself provided, has now sadly been withdrawn. I had been given something which was perfect - wonderful - a golden apple that I expected to shine and glitter and value for the rest of eternity, and then it was kind of ruined, hijacked for political purposes. Someone sold out. For perhaps an admirable cause, but nevertheless. What are the thoughts of Peter Jackson on this? Tolkien's estate?

Point 3. I'm not a conservative by any means, but Theresa May, for all the perceived faults and injustices that she may seem to have caused, after being handed a sackful of manure by David Cameron ("Here you are, I'm off.") is actually carrying out what the British public asked her to do. And we have to give her credit for carrying through what has turned out to be a hugely unpopular decision. Making her a villain or comparing her to someone with mental health issues for showing resolution, gumption and mettle in the face of enormous adversity, is too much. 

Point 4. We had a vote. A decision was made. That's the nature of Democracy. We can't blame her for doing what we asked her to do, even though we might have changed our mind. In retrospect maybe it should have been stipulated that a 60-40 majority was needed to make such a devastating change to the country and Europe, but ultimately, we already had a People's Vote, and she's sticking to it. Why are we mocking courage? Why are we laughing at resolve? Why are we comparing a person, any person, to Gollum?

Point 5. It's a personal attack on a public forum on someone out on a limb. Have we no empathy left? Have we no common decency? What on earth is happening to this country? Why don't we just poke her with a sharp stick? I may ridicule Barclays Bank managers in general but I would never dream of calling out one specific manager of one specific branch on a public forum and say for example, "Hey, Mr XYZ, you eat raw fish, have a speech impediment, may be suffering early stages of bronchitis, just want to be happy, have single handedly saved the modern world, suffer from mental health problems and are a bit of a shady character!" Would I? No. Because that would be weird.

My father once said there are three things you don't do speeches about: sex, religion and politics (unless you're a standup comedian I guess). But if you look closely at this you'll find it's not really about politics, it's about the difference between a character assassination attempt versus simply disagreeing with someone while being nice to them. A skill that as a nation we seem to be sadly losing. 

Birdsong

It has been three weeks and three days since I first discovered I had 'Swimmer's Ear'. This is not to be confused with 'Schwimmer's Ear' and does not mean that your ear becomes like those of Ross from Friends and lead you to go around holding up restaurants.

Schwimmer's Ear is clearly visible in the left hand picture

Usually a bit of water in the ear after swimming dribbles out on its own, but not this time. After advice from friends (not 'Friends') about how to deal with it - everything from dripping warm olive oil, apple cider vinegar, or Otex into my ear twice a day - and nothing working, I went to the doctors on day eleven, who confirmed that although my left ear was not infected it was full of wax, both hard and soft, and that whatever I was putting in my ear was working and I should continue doing it. He advised me to book an appointment with a nurse on 5th Nov in case it didn't clear on its own, and then I'd get it syringed.

Being deaf in one ear, after the amusing novelty wore off, sucked big time. It felt that half my head was continuously under water. That half my awareness was gone. My universe had shrunk by 50%. I felt like an old man. I regretted every time I'd ever made a joke about deafness, or that I'd thought less of my father for his hearing problems. I wished I'd been more patient with him. More forgiving of his distance, which was not his fault.

Once in Japan I heard a story about a poor guy who, while sleeping, had the hugely unfortunate experience of having a cockroach climb in his ear. He woke up and stuck his finger in, injuring the insect, which then got stuck in there, still alive, scratching at his ear drum.

I made a joke about that at the time - not to the unfortunate himself, but still - which I also deeply regret.

The past few days have become psychologically trying. I tried my best not to let the continuing problem get me down and began hesitantly accustoming myself to the idea that I may be deaf in my left ear for the rest of my days. It wouldn't be that bad. People have it much worse off. Pain was beginning to creep in when I yawned or burped. Tinitus had arrived. I thought if it wasn't infected then it must be now. Today couldn't come fast enough.

I'll confess that never having my ear syringed before left me in some trepidation. I wasn't even sure of the process. I assumed, wrongly, that a nurse would insert a large, empty syringe in my ear and pull out the plunger, slowly sucking out the offending wax, bits of broken ear drum and any other segments of important tissue - like brains for instance - in the area. Fortunately this was not the case.

What really happens is this. The nurse has a look in your ear and confirms that yes, your ear has lots of wax in it. Then she gets you to sit near the sink and hold a kind of cup under your lobe next to your jaw. Next she switches on some kind of electric pump mechanism (which is not foot operated) with a hose attached, warns you that this shouldn't hurt but if it does let her know, and begins the hugely satisfying act of gurgling warm water into your ear allowing the waxy mixture to drip out of its own accord.

It wasn't sore at first, but it slowly began to get painful after the second time. It was like rolling, undulating hills of gentle pain. The good sort of pain. The pain that meant you were getting some hard, dry, foreign gunk pressing precariously against your ear drums warmed up, dissolved and removed. But I didn't care. I just wanted it out of there.

Finally she showed me a big dod of brown waxy clay the same size, colour and consistency of a test tube stopper, and I just thought, 'How earth has that been building up over the past decade without my knowledge?'

The second thought was, 'Holy Moses I can hear again.'

Relief and gratitude flooded through me. I didn't hug the nurse, but I should have. I promised there and then that I would never make outdated and unoriginal 'Carry On' references about nurses ever again. Not to the nurse, but inwardly, to myself. 

I walked out amazed at the newly discovered and hyper sensitive hearing I was now receiving through my left side. Every rustle, every scraping hair, every echo off a wall. Immense appreciation of the nurse herself, to the NHS, to the inventor of that wonderful little 'Earcuzzi' gizmo, of all musicians and singer songwriters, of all guitarists and makers of guitars, of all my friends, to the writers of 'Friends', of everyone and everything that makes sound.

On exiting the health centre I got a bit of a fright. 'What the hell is that,' I thought.

It was birdsong and traffic.

When I got home, after a nice dinner where we all had a bit of a family high, I said, "Why is our new fridge suddenly so noisy today?" 

My wife and son looked at me. "What are you talking about? It's always been that bad."

The Writing of Ode to Eleanor

As a Hallowe'en writing exercise for West Lothian Writers, we were asked to write a piece of no more than 1000 words to read out on Tuesday 30th October 2018, and my brain kind of erupted with the poem Ode To Eleanor, about a young Scottish man who was in a gothic, restless piece of mind over an ex-girlfriend who'd broken his heart.

On the Sunday I sat down in front of the blank page and thought I'd try to write a funny poem in the style of Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven. Recently I'd had good feedback when I read out chapter one of my Aa Apple's Great Escape children's book, so I hoped it might be quite entertaining to do another one.

A friend by the name of Mark Aspinwall had long ago for a birthday or Christmas present given me an audio recording of someone reading The Raven, which I really liked listening to, so thanks must go to him, and in my younger days I often tried and enjoyed reading Robert Burns to myself, even though it was quite difficult to understand, but once you finally penetrated it you were often rewarded with gems of great cutting wit. Thirdly, I thoroughly loved reading the likes of the centipede's long rambling poetic monologues in "James and the Giant Peach" by Roald Dahl, to my son, especially places where Dahl bent the arbitrary rules he had set himself, and made words that seemed to have no business rhyming, rhyme.

The first page came out in a happy flood of lyrical nonsense. It was only when I came to the lines :

at least they did in my mind's______,

which had recorded every scary scene

when I realised I had to do the whole poem in Scots, or at least a Scottish accent, as the only word I could come up with to mean 'eye' that rhymed with 'scene' was the old scots word 'een'. Up until that point the narrator was going to be a rather pompous English or American person.

When I came to the lines:

as I heard a voice shriek from the black

“It's just yer maw, dye want a snack?”

I found myself in a spot of bother. It meant a conversation with his mother had to take place. But what about? I had no idea. And anyway, he already had a snack - a fact I hoped the readers wouldn't notice what with all the other crazy goings on. Eventually it became a bit of a telling off about some ex girlfriend the narrator was still hung up about. But I still had no clue where this was going or if I'd be able to continue or end this piece of writing in a satisfying way that made any kind of sense, ridiculous or otherwise. Efforts to find words that rhymed with 'Raven' that I could use were completely in vain, and having a mother that was 'unshaven' didn't seem to fit. 

It was only when I found myself writing the lines:

"Wasn't she the third

to leave you lying in the dust?

It's not all about nice bum and bust.”

that I saw the glinting light of a possible escape route. At least perhaps I could have a bust of some sort above the chamber door.

The happiest I felt when writing was around the lines:

I gasped on chocolate milky breath

and damn near almost choked to death

as I heard a voice shriek from the black

as I think that was the cresting climax of the suspense part of the poem, after which I began to think, "What on earth have I gotten myself into?" and then it all folded into a silly mess as I tried to dig out of the grave I'd cheerfully and unwittingly dug for myself.

From start to finish the poem took about three days.

After finally finishing this my mind was still wanting to think in rhyming couplets. Like when you play too much scrabble your brain automatically jumbles up the letters of words you see, even unbidden. 

It was only when doing the video that the gesturing to the cropped image of Eleanor's bum and bust above the chamber door after each stanza came about, which I probably stole from Noel Fielding's hilarious Goth in the IT Crowd. It's ironic that after reading the poem for the video so many times I'm now more able to recite large chunks from memory, especially aloud to myself while driving along the M8 on my way somewhere.

Apologies to all concerned.

Ode to Eleanor

Twas a bleak and dreich October

When I sat munchin' on ma Tobler

-one. I stared alone twixt curtains

torn an' faded like Tim Burtons'

Corpse Bride and others o' that ilk.

I took a sip of me warmed milk

as doon in the groonds below

in patchy shadows neath the glow

of intermittent neon street lamps

hiding throngs o' zombies, vamps

didst frolic, gamble, twixt rose and bud,

Texas holdems, 5 card stud

at least they did in ma mind's een,

which had recorded every scary scene

fae horror movies maest eclectic

(lucky I'm no epileptic)

as on and off the lights didst flicker

reminds me how we once didst bicker

Me and my most recent ex but one –

Eleanor.

Suddenly I heard a tapping,

a quiet, gentle, faded rapping,

Turned did I and looked – no more-

towards my hard oak chamber door

“Who's there?!” ah croaked, goosebumps rising.

Twas just the wind, I tried surmising.

Swiss chocolate from my fingers fell

'pon the floor (some milk as well)

As lo, didst handle start to turn!

And in ma throat my heart did burn!

Through veins as chilled as ice

Ran curdled blood - no once but twice!

As tapping at the door compounded

rapping at the pane! Dumbfounded,

Shocked and stunned, I turned in vain

to see nought beyond the window pane

save skeletal tree-like bones a-tapping

'pon the glass like fingers rapping.

Beckoning to bid me join them

and secretly my life purloin, then

into darkness fae top floor I'd leap

And wake up dead fae tortured sleep.

“Just the Birch!” I knew

“Caused by one strong gust or two.

“But what of oakwood door?”

As I spun I saw no more

Than shadowy landing through the crack

and with distinct shrivelling of sack

I gasped on chocolate milky breath

and damn near almost choked to death

as I heard a voice shriek from the black

“It's just yer maw, dye want a snack?”

A voice that sounded nothing like

fair voice of Eleanor.

“No thanks, Mamaw, I'm mid ode:

An Edgar Allan episode.”

Fae the shadows, a tut, a sigh.

“Not again, wee lad, I can't see why

you can't just let this Eleanor bird

fly the coop. Wasn't she the third

to leave you lying in the dust?

It's not all about nice bum and bust.”

“It wasn't just her bum and bust,

if to refer to those you must,

her eyes, her nose, her smile, her hair

were also well beyond compare

Whether in the Louvre or Tate

such a perfect prime portrait

I haven't seen before or since

Next to her a pound of mince,

those other girls ...

we had some whirls

upon the carousel of love

but mother now, dear god above

Quit my door, opine no more,

Get thee hence, I must implore,

you leave me to my selfish wallow

in my Eleanor-shaped hollow.

Bother me no more along this lonely path

lest you taste my bitter, thorny wrath!”

and with a creak, a squeak, no more,

she then withdrew and closed the door.

And slowly upwards roamed my stare

from handle up the oakwood door and there

my gaze could not help but linger

as I pointed shaky finger

at the blown up photograph cropped shear

between the door and ceiling near

the final precious keepsake of my dearest Eleanor.

Just space enough for bum and bust 

above my oakwood chamber door.

Bum and bust and nothing more.

At least the blu tac still is sticking -

still is sticking, still is sticking -

Eleanor's dear bum and bust above my oakwood chamber door.

© Chris Young 2018