Leaky Joe: Fistful of Blues (studio, 1999)
$10 for CD, available by special order (or mostly free, below)
Overture/Anyone But Me/Can't Have Two/Sonja's Son/Deutscheland Nookie/Redhead Tonight/Don't Slam That Door/Bang Bang Girl/Birthday/Cipher/Puppy/And Then The Fireman Ate The Eggs
all songs written and arranged by someone special (c)(p)1999, Cody Weathers, all rights reserved, except for Overture which is obviously stolen and sacked like Rome before the Visigoths. No stealing the worthless material, OK?
Additional MP3 Singles:
Don't Hate the Players:
Leaky Joe: Lead vocals, guitar
Vladimir "Didi" Kovlenko: Bass, BU voc
Ivan "Petrovich" Cordescu: Guitar, BU voc
Natasja "Sneaky" Ducwaniska: Keyboards, Guitar, BU voc
Victor "Trotsky" Gublinov: Drums/percussion
Additional Studio Talent:
Larry LaMette, PE: Bass on Puppy
Dara "Gewerbegebiet" Hogue: German translation/speech
Ron "Helmet" Feldman: Guitar solo on Don't Slam That Door
Big John Douglas: Guitar solos on Redhead Tonight & Puppy
Terri "Wings" Kempton: Digiridoo, BU Voc
Eric Rorem: Bass
John Speranza: stuff
Cody Weathers: stuff, as well
Slim Foote: Bass, BU Voc
Grumbler Mason: Drums
Robert McIntosh: percussion
Brian Costello: Harmonica
Gil "Chemically Blind" Kalicinsky: Keyboards, BU Voc, Guitar
Born in the mean bayou streets of Chicago and Kansas City, "Leaky" Joe Berber spent his formative years as a "prostitute-runner" in the railyards. Later, he attended the University of Iowa, where he majored in Picking Cotton with a minor in Russian Literature. Following the elusive path of Dotsoyevsky (sic), he rode a donkey west to Seattle, where he became a prominent fixture in the underground progressive blues scene. Earlier EPs "The Blues Is Dead," "F*** Your Blues," and "Pour Yourself A Steaming Hot Cup of Leaky Joe" attracted the interest of Checkmate Records A&R rep Clayton VonSickly, who quickly landed Leaky a slot on the coveted Checkmate Exemplathon Festival in Glenn's Ferry, ID. At the Exemplethon, VonSickly arranged for Leaky to press flesh with Flip Nasty songsmith Cody Weathers, who expressed intense interest in "f***ing your project up" as producer. The label was thrilled, and the project got a green light for December 98 basic tracks recording. True to his promise, Weathers prompty removed Leaky's live band from the process, replacing them with non-union Russian circus musicians. "At first, Leaky threw one of his little fits. But I held firm to the idea that I wanted that Slavic vibe in Leaky's writing to really come in to sharp relief. Plus, with the state of the ruble, it was the way to go. Eventually, he got tired of fighting me, so that's how we did it." Leaky concurs: "May rats f*** his pupils."
Overture: It's time to play the music. It's time to light the lights. It's time to get things started on the Leaky Joe tonight. It's time to put on makeup, it's time to get things right. It's time to get things started on the Leaky Joe tonight. Greek Chorus: Why do we always come here? I guess we'll never know. It's like some form of torture to have to watch this Joe. It's time to kill the children. It's time to burn their kites. It's time to get things started on the Leaky Joe tonight. It's time to bake some muffins. The kind that Karen likes! It's time to get things started on the Leaky Joe tonight. This is what we call the Leaky Joe.
Anyone But Me: I love you, I repel you, and I'm going to die without you. I don't want to face the morning, I just want to sleep a while. Chorus: Well, I thought you loved me, baby; you still hate me. You'll love anyone but me. I'm foolish and perverted, and I blame how it was worded, but I know it's not cerebral. I'm not good enough, I know. Chorus. It's me, my name is sorrow. I'll be sadder still tomorrow. I'm just Cupid's wasted arrow, but the sharks are looking sharp. Chorus. I love you, I repel you, and I'm drowsy here without you. I'll just dream about the lilies. I just want to sleep a while.
I Can't Have Two: Laura's got her daisies, and Beth has tattoos. She claims she did a f*** film --she said she'd do me too. Laura is a painter and a waitress at the zoo, but I can't have two, I can't have two. Laura knows the wine list, and Beth knows the booze. I think that Laura likes me --I kissed her after school. Beth can turn your tongue into an animal balloon, but I can't have two, I can't have two. Smells like flowers, but it's not Gretchen, even though Gretchen smells like flowers, too. You know, three won't do. Angry Laura's leaving, she buried my shoes. She painted me a eunuch --I'm hanging in the Louvre. Beth can turn a whip just like she's turning on the news, and I can't have two, I can't have two.
Sonja's Son: Once upon your belly, I sought to lay my heart to touch and turn, tease and burn, your toy to take apart. But flames can fade, and candles made of paper don't burn long. It's not that big a deal to be that wrong. Chorus: Kiss me twice goodbye, I'm here for Sonja's son. His little hand in mine while mama's out tonight. I remember Sonja when she was young, ripe, and fine. I remember Sonja when she was mine. Pushed into a corner, clutching my receipt. Another night in Sonja's fight to find some kind of heat. But flames that last and lanterns cast in gold are hard to steal. Still, Sonja doesn't want my little deal. Chorus. How many more candles will you light before you strike a match in your own sight? "Pack me up an apple --Daddy when will you live with us like people on TV?" But flames can rise from sparks that fly from friction between hearts. And sometimes, Sonja, fires are good to start.
Deutscheland Nookie: Maike sweet, she wrote me flowers in the strange moonlight. I hear her breathe in a sexy dream. She might be the one, but I'm still a little boy --no, there's no one for me. Deutscheland, Deautscheland, she broke my icicle, stole my heart and stole my bicycle. She might be alive, but I'm still a little boy --no, there's no life for me. Come on frauelein, it's respectable. I keep my secrets with my spectacles. You might turn me on. If I weren't a little boy, you'd be the one for me.
Redhead Tonight: Young girls don't know where their heart is. Young boys don't really seem to mind. Twenty-one and you're going to the cemetary. Not me, I want a redhead tonight. I won't really mind if you kiss me. I won't get mad if you try, but if you want me to stay then just don't go away and I'll be here by your side, 'cause me --I want a redhead tonight. Tell me something, Juliet, do you even give a damn or does it even matter that you don't know who I am? Young girls don't know where their heart is. Young boys don't really seem to mind. Twenty-one and you're surely headed for the graveyard. not me, I want a redhead tonight. Chorus: She's red like a flame, and I know she's insane. She doesn't need to have a name to hop aboard my train, and I know I'll forget her, but if I play my cards right, I'll have a redhead tonight. Older girls think they know where their heart is. Older boys don't really seem to mind. Twenty-one and I won't be dead and buried. Even then, I'll want a redhead tonight. I won't really mind if you love me --I won't get mad if you try. Like a fly on the wall, I hear it all --in me you can rely. 'Cause me, I want a redhead tonight. Tell me something, shades-of-grey, is it ever black and white or will that crimson top forever be my guiding light? Is she red all over? What a wonderful sight. Me, I think I'd settle for a redhead tonight. Chorus.
Don't Slam That Door: Dearest stranger, I so hate to be ignored. Avoid me now and you avoid me forever more. Is there no light in here? Why must it be so dark? Are you so frigid within your heart of hearts? Chorus: Don't slam that door on me or I will kill your memory. I'll poison it slowly. Claw at my heart forever. So don't slam that door on me --open this f***ing door! Meuma Mona Lisa, why do you smile at me that way. Is there some magic in your mischief for today? I don't understand it, but I try to play along, but even all my friendly words are nothing short of wrong. ChorusII: Don't slam that door on me or I will kill your memory. I'll poison it slowly. Cross my heart if you hope to die. So don't slam that door on me --open this f***ing door! Dearest judge and jury, I so hate to be on trial, but I will keep my patience for just a little while. Your soft eyes try to kill me every time I look at you. I guess I should abandon ship, but I've got nothing better to do.
Bang Bang Girl: You don't love me, but I sure do need you so. Well my baby, you've got a long, long way to go. Chorus: Yeah, I'm gaga over you, my bang bang girl, my bang bang girl. You don't trust me, but you keep the oven hot. Well, my baby, you've got me all tied in a knot. Chorus. You won't keep me, but you let me hang my hat. Well my baby, you don't know where my heart is at.
Birthday: Tomorrow's your birthday --I don't know what to get you. If I had a ladder, I'd put you on top of the world. Tomorrow's your birthday, so welcome to a new year. Now blow out those candles, may your wishes come true Chorus: You can have anything you want. Hit the ground running, you can fly with your heart. Tomorrow's your birthday --I don't know what to get you. I hope you like songs 'cause it's all that I've got.
Cipher: If you had anything, would you have me? If you could get away, what would you flee? Well that's what broken hearts are for: tape them up and break them more. If you could speak your heart, what would I see. Sips of you --though you are right-- are destined down the wrong damn pipe. If you were anyone, who would be me? Chorus: I can see the tone, but the shape presents a cipher. I'm gonna touch your heart if you let me. I'm a fool, like I was fifteen and everything came to one moment, trapped in one word. And I'm cruel, like I was better than anything. I'm so afraid I'm gonna lose. Chorus. An empty vase, like you're waiting for a rose. What I'm waiting for, who knows? Stars to burn out, I suppose. You are to passionate to understand. You conquer everything --you always win. Well, that's what nervous hearts are for: throw them blind against the door. So would you open it and let me in? Tiny features, tiny plans, hold me in your tiny hands.
Puppy: Are they all like you in Bremerton, where the water meets the land? You've got apples on the waves you ride, but there's poison in your hand. I can't screw up what I can't see. Your puppy dog features are a trap to me. Did your mommy dearest tell you right about the way this whole thing works? You've got questions in your sharken eyes. Did you know that this would hurt? I can't screw up what I can't see. Your poison-pup perceptions are a wall to me. You have your invitations, as thin as thin can be. Did you listen when I told the truth. Was there arsenic in your ear. There's still time to pull your rotten tooth --spit the food that brings you tears. I can't defend what I don't know. Your puppy woman customs are away from home. Must I hear another treatise, dear? Ain't it time to say goodnight? You can nibble long upon my ear --I can't feel another bite. I can't screw up what I can't see. Your puppy woman secrets are a mystery. Do they pine for you in Washington? Do they miss your sorrow eyes? Do they stop your lips with eager tongues? Do they sugar you with lies? I can't retract what I don't cause. Your thorny little trail is gonna shred your paws. Your baby bones bending in another way, trying to burst into a brighter day. Will you break if you don't get your way. I'm over here, prying with my 2x4, trying to give you just a little more room to push aside the bitter door. Are they all like you in Bremerton?
And Then The Fireman Ate The Eggs: She was completely covered in s*** and laughing in the bathtub. "What's the matter with you? Turn the water on and wash that s*** off!" "I can't stop laughing. Tim loves me. I'm so happy." Tim, where had I heard that name before? Oh yes, I remember Tim. He was the one who shot the clown, poured sugar in my gas tank, and sold those awful, awful calendars. Now he had stolen the woman I loved. Damn she was gorgeous. Tim also made illegal milkshakes, heavy on the morning glory. The calendars --I saw her in one. F*** Tim to show her like that with those pie circles. Sasha always liked circles, but I felt that he'd gone too far. She was October --we met in October under the harvest moon. Then the fire department kicked down the door. "Where's the fire?!" The littlest fireman only had one arm. He picked up a lamp and threw it into the kitchen, "I'm not f***ing around!" Sasha walked in --she has perfect apple breasts-- "Oh good, the fire deapartment's here." And I knew she would leave me. She would leave me and take her ovaries with her. My eggs. I started to cry. I wanted those eggs and the fireman really wasn't f***ing around and proceeded to chop things with the glee only sex-crazed nymph like Sasha could have. Neither of them understood why the eggs were important, and I would never taste those apples again. And then the fireman ate the eggs. "How do you like 'em," groaned Sasha in an unseemly manner. I wanted to die. "Harvested, scrambled --whatever." He kept j***ing his l*** d*** with his hand; it seemed selfish. I wanted to take his weasely face and r*** his mouth with a wine bottle. "Here, let me do that," said Sasha. "You don't have to do this, Sasha..." my heart was breaking. "Shut up! You creep me out! You don't own me! I don't even like you!" That was it. That was it. My babies in his belly, I cleft his ape skull in two with the fire axe. When I woke the next morning, Sasha was still naked, but the axe was strangely clean. I went outside, where I was practically beaten to death by a funeral procession playing the national anthem on the bagpipes. It was then that I stole the dalmation. January 25th is Robert Burns' birthday. The bagpipes were advancing, but I'll tell you a secret that usually only Scots know: Burns died of rabies and he was bitten by a dalmation. There were 101 of those bagpipe b***ards, but I showed 'em. But I never showed Sasha again.
Not satisfied with a sampler of the fake bands on my fake record label, we decided that one of them needed his own full-length album. Joh3n O'Meara boldly put himself on the line and in the spotlight in a watershed performance as Leaky Joe --progressive Seattle bluesman. Or so some speculate. As a musician, I've always had an uneasy love-hate relationship with the blues. On the one hand, I have undeniably carried it around as an influence, and have made fairly good money playing it as a drummer. On the other hand, I find it to be mired in its own tradition, largely stale, and incestuously derivative. I am further irked by analytical misperceptions of the general public as to what the blues is really made of (and I'll leave it at that). The concept for this album (progressive blues) was to explore alternate chord progressions other than standard I-IV-V variations while maintaining a fringe connection to the gestalt (actual delta blues term) of blueness. I think this comes through fairly well in all the new material written for the album --a little less so in other songs written at other times and simply recorded here to fill out the disc.
Overture: This is just a quick concept Joh3n, Cat, and I came up with as an intro. The grumblers are Cat & me. Eric Rorem played bass.
Anyone But Me: Eric Rorem on bass, me on everything else. I double Joh3n's vocal. The guitar solo whine is achieved by "bowing" a guitar slide across one of the string nodes on all 6 strings. I think this song actually stands up well on its own, and started playing it fairly regularly live. This is sure what it felt like to be Cody Weathers in 1999. Darkest before the dawn, they say.
I Can't Have Two: One of the original Leaky Joe tunes from Monkey Eat Monkey. Speranza on guitar and bass, me on piano and drums (and screaming). The "Smells Like Flowers" bridge harkens back to my first side project with best buddy O'Meara, The O'Weathers Jazz Duo. Speranza screams "Tell it like it is!" Nice scat from O'Meara. Overall, he did a great job stepping up to the plate as a lead singer for some deceptively-difficult songs. This is a fairly meaningless fun song about some poor bastard getting himself into a pickle over two archetypical women --Laura the "girl next door" and Beth the "bad girl minx." That jerk deserves what he gets!
Sonja's Son: An older, previously unrecorded throwaway from college. I severely underestimated the quality of a whole stretch of songs, there: Sonja's Son, Daughter of Our Enemy, Salt of the Memory, Along, Hero, and Cruel were all written about the same time, only to be shelved until much later. I think that part of that stems from these being songs of fiction --telling stories that have little to do with me personally. O'Meara does a great job with this vocal. I play all the instruments. Decent brushwork, which I used to be reluctantly good at.
Deutschland Nookie: That's Dara Hogue on the spoken translation. These chords move like standard 12-bar blues, but they're totally different, related geometrically rather than as I-IV-V. O'Meara also speaks fluent German, having spent a year abroad in high school, during which time, I stole his a.) piano and b.) German strudel-pie, Maike.
Redhead Tonight: All I'm saying is that Abra Moore is hot and her band is super-tight. Who wouldn't want to amp down the speed on his recorder and sing in falsetto to fake her voice into a song? I ask you: who? The lead guitar work is from "Big John," the affable lead guitarist from The AM Blues Band, for whom I played drums at the time. Great bunch of guys with tons of talent, but ultimately not as motivated to get the kind of work they were capable of. At the time, I was playing my own gigs, as well as gigging with The Stunt Beatles and rehearsing with AM Blues. As The Stunt Beatles got more and more work, I had to amicably quit AM Blues. I play all the other instruments.
Don't Slam That Door: Eric Rorem on bass, Ron Feldman (AM Blues) on lead guitar, me on the rest. Joh3n had several distinct vocal personalities prepared for Leaky. This is the one I like to call "Grumpy Leaky." There's also "Smooth Leaky" and "Leaky Vedder." Nice solo, Ron. Come to think of it, I don't think I actually divulged to the AM Blues guys that this was a fake band. I didn't exactly lie, but I'm pretty sure I just let them assume it was a real session. What a jerk I am.
Bang Bang Girl: as heard on Monkey Eat Monkey. Much of the instrumental track was recorded while on tour, staying with Brian Costello in Portland (guitar: me, djembe: Robert McIntosh, harmonica: Brian). Speranza on bass. Me trying to disguise my voice as Leaky's backing vocals. Me on the slide guitar solo. Like Deutschland Nookie, this follows the harmonic rhythm of standard 12-bar blues, with alternate chords in place of I-IV-V. The other subtle variation on long-standing blues tradition is to repeat the second couplet of each verse phrase rather than the first.
Birthday: OK, now this actually is a throwaway song. Firmly so. Not misjudged or underestimated. Terri Kempton on backup vocals, digeridoo, and clapping. Me on the rest.
Cipher: He bitched about how hard it was, but Joh3n ultimately pulled it off. Very difficult song, rhythmically.
Puppy: Alternate feel to the old standard. Larry LaMette on bass & Big John on lead again (both AM Blues).
And Then The Fireman Ate The Eggs: Speranza, O'Meara, Cat, and I wrote these words as a round-robin short story (where you write a little bit then hand it to the next person folded so that they only see what you wrote and not what came before) for our own amusement one night in Village Inn after playing somewhere. It was not intended to be a song, but I went ahead and crossed all remaining lines of decency and put it over this vamp. This is the only song where O'Meara's not the voice. Two variations on the blues here: substitute chords, and also an 11/8 truncated shuffle (as opposed to 12/8). Probably the single greatest contribution of this song to the Flip Nasty lexicon (worth the terrible price of admission) is the introduction of vocally-distorted scats, without which we would never have such masterworks as "China, Present Day." I originally arranged that version of the national anthem for Dara Hogue (of Deutschland translation fame) to perform (piano/vocal) at an official Air Force function.