One week left, one more day in the studio, one more boiling day in a week of boiling days to come. We were working on drums and vocals today, harmonies, and a lot of listening, figuring out what needs to be done before leaving for Portugal. In this last week, I was hoping to get out into Dallas and see the sights, go to a museum, or the record stores, End Of An Ear and 14 Records at least, but it looks unlikely. The studio is a black hole except it’s lined with satin and glistening jewels, you are imprisoned in paradise.

On the window today, a grasshopper, engineer Kevin commented that out on his property, there’s a lot of them and they eat everything from vegetation to the metal gauze door to each other. I wonder about the furry animals like the squirrels in the heat, I haven’t seen the raccoon for a while and any birds seem to be hiding, but where? My other question is where do birds sleep? And if it’s in the trees, why do we never see them snoozing on the branches? They can’t all have self-contained nests with hot and cold running insects and feather pillows.

The people who are out in this weather are mad runners, construction workers, and dog walkers, it’s a good time to have a cat. It’s the furry dilemma again, the dogs look like they’re going to die, but then again so do the fur-free runners. Salim, who likes to run, told me it was 81°F/27°C at 6 AM – that’s the best you’re going to do for a cooler running window. For me, I’m in the studio all the time, so I’m in constant A/C, but the other reason people generally survive in this heat is because no one walks anywhere anyway, you’re home, at work, at school or in the car – or at Denny’s. Haha.

We recorded a song today with lots of words, lots of breath, diction, and multiple verses and choruses, it wasn’t quite Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, but it took some time. Then there are harmonies, double tracking, in fact, multitracking harmonies. We didn’t leave the studio till midnight, but we don’t notice.

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes
And your silver cross and your voice like chimes
Oh, who do they think could bury you?

With your pockets well-protected at last
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass
And your flesh like silk and your face like glass
Who could they get to carry you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums
Should I put them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace
And your basement clothes and your hollow face
Who among them did think he could outguess you?

With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims
And your matchbook songs and your gypsy hymns
Who among them would try to impress you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums
Should I put them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus, with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss
And you wouldn’t know it would have happened like this
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?

With your childhood flames on your midnight rug
And your Spanish manners and your mother’s drugs
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs
Who among them do you think could resist you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums
Should I leave them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you where the dead angels are that they used to hide
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
How could they ever mistake you?

They wished you’d accepted the blame for the farm
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm
And with the child of the hoodlum wrapped up in your arms
How could they ever have persuaded you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man’s come
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums
Should I leave them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet metal memory of Cannery Row
And your magazine husband who one day just had to go
And your gentleness now, which you just can’t help but show
Who among them do you think would employ you?

Now you stand with your thief, you’re on his parole
With your holy medallion in your fingertips now enfold
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul
Who among them could ever think he could destroy you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums
Should I leave them by your gate, or sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Music today has been Bob Dylan‘s classic double album Blonde on Blonde (1966), inspiration soup.

Music Of The Daze