I Just Blow Smoke
Regardless of how it sounds this album was not designed to promote the smoking habits of others. In fact the surgeon general suggest that prolonged years of listening to this collection of music will not shorten your life, maybe it could enhance it. It was designed to exist among the stories we tell about chasing down a dream that's ever close but ever so far away. Where the glory of the chase can sometimes be more glamorous than the apprehension of the dream. Down where cobble streets echo with poetry of broken hearted dreamers who wouldn't want to live their lives any other way. Maybe they do, but somewhere in Story Town there's hope of fictional truth, blind faith, the hope of the true salvation that can only come if you believe beyond the basics of reality. It seems that everybody has a story to tell. Everybody has had that moment in their life when everything almost fell into place. Only if this would have happened or if that would have happened. Same old same old, over and over, till everyone has become blue in the face and the close calls of claims to fame grow bigger and bigger. Wrapped up and tangled up within the women, the music, the booze, the women, the music, the booze, the women, the music, the booze, till you're six hundred and sixty six light years away from the field of dreams where you wanted to be, and it takes seven hundred and seventy, seven, seconds (give or take a few heartbeats) to get back to where it all began. Childhood. Toyland. It's mystical and you feel the magic once again. Innocence. The razor is in your hand. You can't do it, but you must do it. Maybe everything will be alright if you just get it over with. For crying out loud. Look at yourself. Yeah it's rough, but that's all the more reason to do it. Damn it. Come on and get it over with. Slowly you bring the razor closer and closer and you wonder if it is going to hurt. Are you going to feel any pain? As that razor slides across your face you see that beard that you couldn't wait to grow once you got out of high school laying in the bathroom sink, and now it's over and you see the face you once buried. The first thought, 'ah man, that's me.' Oh yeah. But after a few days you get used to and then you cut your hair. Then you find that there's less hair to cut and it's turning gray. Whoa! Now is the time and now is the place, put on your suit and shave your face. Should I wear loafers or something that needs to be laced. Those are the questions you begin to ask. Your rebel heart sees the opportunity to exist, within the world the of your own politics. Watch what you say and how say it, take what your dealt and learn how to play it. We all work the system, but don't forget the innocence and the seven hundred and seventy, seven seconds (give or take a few heartbeats) to get back to where it all began. Childhood. Over the flat lands of Indiana I flew on the wings of an Eagle (American that is). From Cincinnati (my hometown) to the booming razamatazz of Chicago. On the train from O'hara to the loop, the musicians of Street Dreams played in the subway tunnels, a place of natural reverb that can only exist in the beauty of this man made Metropolis. Man made. But didn't God create man. This is nature on the opposite extreme. Such peace and beautiful noise. Get back to nature. Get back to my savior. The women are friendly, though your not in it for the sex, just a female companion to wine and dine. Hear some jazz, hear some blues, and see some theater. As the early morning sun comes streaking through the window. You lie in bed and watch as it reflects off the buildings and awakes a city that has only slept for an hour or two. Still dressed in an Italian suit you put on your overcoat and greet the city. Down Michigan Avenue to the Wriggly building, above Hubbert Street, south toward the Chicago river, past the Chicago Sun Times, you walk with your hands in your overcoat and you wonder why you don't have a briefcase. All a sudden the scene comes to your mind of a Chicago psychiatrist turned comedian, Bob Newhart walked this same path every week at the beginning of his TV show. Back in Cincinnati it's dark, the temperature is about 55 degrees on this autumn evening and the conservative town seems like it has the flu. Wishing you where still in Chicago you hear the sound of crickets. You don't recall hearing crickets up there. Maybe there were. The rhythm builds in your head till it explodes with song. The smell of fire floats in the air like a simple mind content in God. Burn the leaves of the maple, burn the leaves of the sycamore, cut through the fabric of time and become a child once more. I doesn't matter who you are, what your dream is, whether your on Wall Street, out in Hollywood, on the streets of Chicago, or in Conservative Town, one thing remains. The old executives of the real world will recall their dreams and look upon a world of young and excited hopefuls, and see themselves. Which ones know how to dress, how to walk this way and then walk that way, who knows how to give the people what they want when they want it, and keep their moral soul in the process. Who knows when and when not to Just Blow Smoke. Who will it be. I pray it's me. Gregory Patrick Agnew.