"HOME TO THE SEA" |
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No one, not even Anita Kerr
herself, can imagine what fun I had working with her on the San Sebastian Strings series
that we did together. Her music was inspiring and her arrangements were always stylish,
inventive and unexpected. Best of all she was and is one of the sweetest, funniest,
kindest and most talented people I’ve ever worked with or known as a friend. Could
anybody ever ask for a better working environment?
I was a racer in those days, trying my dandiest to be a thoroughbred, and Anita always
kept up. We never failed to finish neck & neck. From the first shot out of the barrel,
in this case "The Sea" we sold so many records that nobody from the record
company ever bothered us. I was able to not only push the envelope but shred it if I
wished. I got away with saying things that made Anita blush, but that never stopped her
from coming up with music to compliment every word.
Each album we did was a concept album. It had a beginning, middle and an end. Lyrically
there was a story that had to carry the album. Musically there was a main theme that
underscored the story and vasts amount of additional music that helped flesh out my
flights of fancy. I like to think the best tracks stood on their own, lyrically and
musically.
Jessie Pearson, the extraordinary late actor, was the voice of our "Sea
Trilogy": The Sea, The Soft Sea & Home To The Sea. Nobody ever spoke any of my
words better and directing him was a treat. I didn’t always write poems for the San
Sebastian Strings series, sometimes just a line or two between musical passages or maybe a
paragraph.
These passages, never in print before, are merely thoughts, not poetry but I hope they
help to bring the album back in memory.
- R.M. 10/3/98
Three Paragraphs from "Home to the Sea"
1. Another Evening With The Gypsies: I know I’m nearing home...there are
gypsies in my dreams again. Caravans of minstrels with castanets and crystal balls. Dogs
of every color following the wagons. I can smell the strong coffee coming from a hundred
gypsy campfires. I wonder, do the gypsies still accept runaways’ to their own? Or
must I find another Foreign Legion?
Never mind, the gypsies all belong to me. . . . at night anyway.
2. There Are No Beaches In Magic City, Texas: The day before Magic City Texas blew
away and new nuts predicted the world’s end, we made love in the grove of cottonwood
trees. . remember? You weren’t afraid of me then. You weren’t afraid of
anything. Being young does that. When you’re young, there are only beaches and no
battlefields. There were and are no beaches in Magic City Texas, so I got the hell out of
there.
3. Running Out Of Strangers: Passing by on trains I see it on the hills. The same
face sometimes walking a little bit ahead of me. Opening my eyes in strange hotels . . .
last night’s memory clouded mixed with all the other memories. . . . following neon
after nine o’clock, watching people like my cat watches me. I’m running out of
tomorrows and arms to run to, strange or familiar. There are no strangers to me anymore
and that begins to worry me.
- from the album Home to the Sea, 1970 |
TRANSITION |
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Can you guess what’s wrong?
I’ve tried and failed
to rise above the breakers
to swift sail out the storm.
Now chance is going
if not gone.
Will you be the one
to start the argument tonight
or is it my turn, I forget.
I wait here for a sign,
a motion wasted on me,
proof that it is possible
for each of us to care
for each of us.
I cannot say
how long I’ve waited.
Years pass by within
a single hour
to those who feel uncared for.
Had there been a signal,
I would have known.
What goes on unseen
untold to us
by one the other
is more real
than all the sentences
our senses spoke
and speak.
I see your face and know
a tilting of your shoulder
speaks whole paragraphs aloud
whole stories filled with proof
that what is happening
is if anything a willful lie
both of us indulge in.
This much is fact.
You do not amaze me
with your dark indifference.
You never once astound me
by being only what
you wish to be.
I await the crumbs just now
delighted that they come
from fresh bread
lifted out of ovens
by some hidden master baker.
No pride moves ahead
to pave my way.
I’ve fast become
the dark parts
of your shadow,
little more than your extension,
hardly more than your left arm.
It tires me to know
I’m just the casing
of a window
looking out beyond your world.
After I’ve packed up
and gone
fly a flag
should the intruder come.
Take care to give me
fresh reports of all the ships
and all the ducks and seagulls
that sail or waddle beachward.
Be sure to tell me
if the seals come back
this year
and how the house
gets through the winter.
Keep a diary of sorts
a notebook day to day
that I might thumb through
or
pore over
when I’m living inland
miles away.
- From the US Edition of "The Sea Around Me", 1977 |
