A handful of rain in a broken bottle
A rainbow coming off an oil stain
A broken cork in a muddy puddle
A black top hat on the windowpane 

You can get by quite awhile on alcohol
It’ll tell you sweet lies about happier times
And maybe you’re there
At the bottom of the stairs
But you don’t care
Cause the walls are angels
Just flapping their wings
Just holding you up
Just helping you breathe

A handful of rain in a broken bottle
A rainbow coming off an oil stain
A broken cork in a muddy puddle
A black top hat on the windowpane

For Old Horse

There’s a man with hands of cracked leather
There’s another man with his hand on his chin
One appears too high to get up
Hard to tell where the hell he’s been
One could only wonder what his sins are
Or how the hell he could ever get it right
Just then he gets up
Shouts hidy hidy ho
Another round for anyone drinking here tonight
And when you find me my body will be battered
I had to search the dark for the light
It’s the only light that appeared to me to matter
All the rest appeared to be bright lies 

Let the moon oh hide under milky skies
Let the sun shine through heavy souls
May your fevered lips
Get that first cool sip
Of the wine that makes you feel less alone

There’s a painting of a man with a rifle on his shoulder
But the shadow it cast it appears he’s playing bagpipes
He wouldn’t mind hearing one of those old songs
Before electricity, before electric light
Give him one where God’s amazing grace
Is erased from that book it aint true
Only a man could come up with such rage
A loving God would never turn his back on you
Or maybe one where an angry man finds laughter
Once he beat all the beauty out of his life
Or maybe one where the beat moves a little faster
Something that keeps us on the sunny side of life
 

Let the moon oh hide under milky skies
Let the sun shine through heavy souls
May your fevered lips
Get that first cool sip
Of the wine that keeps you from feeling alone

Finito La Comedia

Borrowed some money on it
Never came back to get it
A true preacher don't know if he's right or wrong
He just knows it's better than what they been on
A true horse you could ride for the distance
A true horse you could ride for the distance

You owed me nothing I know it
What you gave me couldn't keep it
A true preacher don't know if he's right or wrong 
He just knows it's better than what they been on
A true love you could hide your past in
A true love you could hide your past in

You showed me all you could show me
You're a good man you must be lonely
A true preacher don't know if he's right or wrong 
He just knows it's better than what they been on
A true love you could hide your past in
A true love you could hide your past in

mine forever

"In motels, I've written a lot of songs during the day -- because in a motel room there's not much difference between the day and the night. When the door's closed and the big rubber curtains are shut, it's just like night."  Townes Van Zandt

 It starts somewhere around Cisco Pike, a man with a hard-shell case walking in profile, going to meet a man — probably not about a horse. The sun is sharp, and judging by his coat, there's some chill in that sunlight. There's music playing, accoustic guitar surrounded by a full arrangement, and a voice singing about the past, and how remembering it is a hell of a lot easier than facing what's ahead.

The man, of course, is a drug dealer played by Kris Kristofferson, and he's coming to give a guitar and a way of seeing to some teenage mug from the Midwest named Patrick Crowson. There'd be other heroes, too. The late, great Townes, the Willie Nelson of 'Red Headed Stranger', and Haggard, naturally, (though it's not in Crowson's fingers to pick you to pieces like Merle, or, hell, Jerry Reed for that matter). But the particular method of conveying that longing, with a mixture of physical detail followed by a summary line you can hang your hat on — the way of being elegiac and clear-eyed at the same time — strikes me as coming from that man and his hard-shell case.

Then there's Josh Allen, Meanwhiles auteur, soundtrack composer, with a suitcase in his hand, bringing temperature to the air outside the rooms where loss is taking place. There's a little more light on the proceedings thanks to this man, both candle and electric. It's a neat trick, to clarify the shadows without taking them away. But bless him, Josh let's the man do his one thing he does well, well — I'd have had to kick his ass if he hadn't.

Finally, it's about splitting a bottle with Crowson, sitting back and listening to a new song of his weave four, five minutes late at night. There are empties underfoot, a cat somewhere around the toe of your boot. It's pleasantly dark, but maybe that's your vision fading. Crowson plays his new song. You listen to its crooked path without trying to follow it. Your head starts nodding, not with sleep, but in agreement, not like for what Townes did when he reduced a whiskeyed-up farrier to a red-eyed mess, but like for what Dylan did to Peckinpah when he sang him, "Billy, you're such a long, long way from home" over coke, weed and tequila until Sam broke down and said, "You cocksucker, you son of a bitch," with tears in his eyes.

Paul Bodig
May 
                                   
Paul Bodig wrote a Letter from a Friend to a singular character. You can find the letter on the Internet site of Patrick Crowson (www.patrickcrowson.com). The tale of record and man puts my review here in advance in the shade. The rhythm of the senses, the words, the pictures. It is everything unequalled. With loving distance and finding humor it is exactly as beautiful as this music debut. And that is what I say too, because I think on this debut that Patrick Crowson reached the height, breadth and depth which can be found in the better works of Dylan. Just like on Time Out of Mind the case is, you enter the record on Patrick Crowson somewhere by means of a song and wander around full of amazement. Josh Allen is Crowsons Lanois. Without him it seems that Crowson would be like Dante without Vergilius; Allen is the man who knows the way. Already, the most natural deepest way is not known. Because the songs of Crowson know particular qualities which make them difficult to hang your hat on. Crowson sings with an ostensive flat voice and his acoustic guitar is simple. Allen adds thrifty instrumentation; a piano here, an organ there, some bells and especially lots of electric guitar. Percussion is missing. And then there are the songs. Refrains are scarcely there and when they are we hardly hear them. But then the nuances appear, in Crowsons voice, in Allens production. 

You hear a driven obscurity which has not been damaged by the dark. Somewhat similar to that of 16 Horsepower for example, but instead of dogmatic, Crowson brings literary observations, brought with the reserve of a good narrator. Also similar to Tom Waits, for example but instead of the too forced stubborn lecture, Patrick brings his own idiom, naturally like that of a young talent. Bodig tells of the influence of Kristofferson (film and music), Cash and Jimmie Rodgers and the distinction between rhythm and melody in the guitar. In Little Rose an echo of the guitar of Bert Jansch is heard according to Bodig. Perhaps. Perhaps. He also mentions Townes Van Zandt. His presence (what nevertheless on the ultimate master student proportion indicates) is obvious. But already the songs of Van Zandt are a lot more uniform than those of Crowsons. Therefore, this is a real beautiful debut. In fact with regard to form and contents, there is nothing to compare it to. Although this may musically serve they of a slightly other language, but also the weaver of the songs is himself missing as well as he places and names along the way. And now nevertheless we have a concern for these places; a surplus of things we will never hear and we find ourselves left with the job of finding them ourselves. 

The reward here is to anyone that takes the time to listen.

Wim Boluijt
 September