A few years back (I'm thinking about four) when I was living in Fairbanks and having a jolly old time I went to a Chris Smither concert. This woulda been my third Chris Smither concert. The first two I had staffed, this one, I was just an audience member. He sang this awesome song that featured a farmer calling out his produce. That song wasn't on an album yet, and it was in my head for weeks.
Over the years, I've had that song in my head every time I see Chris Smither's name. Whether it be in connection to another songwriter, in an article, or an upcoming concert, that song (or at least the bits of it that I vaguely remembered) would resurface in my brain and I'd hum the incomplete remnants for days.
I saw he was gonna be in town. Friday, on my lunch break, I bought a ticket. Saturday, after rehearsal, I went to the concert. Before the concert started I went up to the CD table and bought the CD with the song that has been stuck in my head for four years. I figured it was an older song, so he probably wouldn't see it, and I couldn't wait until the concert was over and I could hop out to my little blue car and fill this desire for a song I'd only heard once before.
Then, Chris started beating his foot on the floor, and I was gone. Washed away in an unstoppable rhythm. He'd open his voice and sing straight into my lizard brain. Primitive, sexual, and pure instinct. I was lost in his rough, mumbly voice and crystal clear guitar. But that stomping foot is what kept me chained to my seat. He has a mic on the floor. The first time I saw him, he had a board on the floor so his foot would stomp better. It just goes, and drags him along behind it. His stomping foot is a whole percussion section and I am under its spell.
He sang a few songs and then struck the opening chords of a song I hadn't heard in four years. Remember, I'd only heard it once. My mouth opened and this little squeaky squeal erupted from my belly. This was it. Then he stopped. He asked us if we wanted to hear the story first. My lone little voice peeped "YES!" He laughed, other people laughed. But he told the story. He became this old black man singing the gospel of his produce cart.
It was beautiful. Then he played the song and I heard the story of first heartbreak behind the produce man and now its a song I can never forget. I sang bits of it at rehearsal all day today. I've even got a couple actors who could sing the opening lines of the chorus line perfect, and they've never heard the song. I spent all evening reading the lyrics. And I'm in love. Not with the writer, but with the muse behind this song.
It's called No Love Today.
Over the years, I've had that song in my head every time I see Chris Smither's name. Whether it be in connection to another songwriter, in an article, or an upcoming concert, that song (or at least the bits of it that I vaguely remembered) would resurface in my brain and I'd hum the incomplete remnants for days.
I saw he was gonna be in town. Friday, on my lunch break, I bought a ticket. Saturday, after rehearsal, I went to the concert. Before the concert started I went up to the CD table and bought the CD with the song that has been stuck in my head for four years. I figured it was an older song, so he probably wouldn't see it, and I couldn't wait until the concert was over and I could hop out to my little blue car and fill this desire for a song I'd only heard once before.
Then, Chris started beating his foot on the floor, and I was gone. Washed away in an unstoppable rhythm. He'd open his voice and sing straight into my lizard brain. Primitive, sexual, and pure instinct. I was lost in his rough, mumbly voice and crystal clear guitar. But that stomping foot is what kept me chained to my seat. He has a mic on the floor. The first time I saw him, he had a board on the floor so his foot would stomp better. It just goes, and drags him along behind it. His stomping foot is a whole percussion section and I am under its spell.
He sang a few songs and then struck the opening chords of a song I hadn't heard in four years. Remember, I'd only heard it once. My mouth opened and this little squeaky squeal erupted from my belly. This was it. Then he stopped. He asked us if we wanted to hear the story first. My lone little voice peeped "YES!" He laughed, other people laughed. But he told the story. He became this old black man singing the gospel of his produce cart.
I got beans! Red Beans, black beans
all kinda beans! I got sweet corn! I got okra!
It was beautiful. Then he played the song and I heard the story of first heartbreak behind the produce man and now its a song I can never forget. I sang bits of it at rehearsal all day today. I've even got a couple actors who could sing the opening lines of the chorus line perfect, and they've never heard the song. I spent all evening reading the lyrics. And I'm in love. Not with the writer, but with the muse behind this song.
It's called No Love Today.
I don't know much, when I knew less,
And I was heartbroke for the first time,
I was drowning in my tears,
I went looking for a lifeline,
Trying to find some comfort,
A simple tender touch,
Searching for some little cure
That would not cost too much,
And I could hear that produce wagon on the street,
I could hear that farmer singing,
As I cried myself to sleep.
CHORUS:
I got ba-na-na, watermelon, peaches by the pound,
Sweet corn, mirleton, mo' better than in town,
I got okra, enough to choke ya,
Beans of every kind,
If hungry is what's eatin' you
I'll sell you peace of mind,
But this ain't what you came to hear me say,
And I hate to disappoint you,
but I got no love today,
I got no love today,
I got no love today,
No love Today.
I could not love to save myself
From lonesome desperation.
Everything I thought was love
Was worthelss imitation,
My concept of commitment
Was to take all you could give,
I thought the cheapest thrills I loved
Were teachin' me to live,
But nothin seemed to last or see me through
Nothin' but that little song
That I still sing for you
(Repeat CHORUS)
No love today, none tomorrow
Not now, not forever
You can't see what comes for free,
I think you much too clever,
For your own good I will tell you
What's right before your eyes,
Intelligence is no defense
Against what this implies,
In the end no one will sell you what you need,
You can't buy it off the shelf,
You got to grow it from the seed
(Repeat CHORUS)
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