So it’s Sunday morning. Too late and/or too hungover to make it to church on time. Pull up a pew and take a magical Trip instead. And then take it again. And again. ‘My boots are cracked with road dirt and asphalt, spit, and broken dreams…’
05 November 2021 | James Porteous | Clipper Media
The Trip
Written by Gillian Welch and David Rawlings.
Whistles blowing, people get on trains
Without knowing where they’re going
Someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s teacher going down the road
With a body, a handkerchief, and a hatchet from an unspeakable crime
But there’s no one waiting for them, there’s no judgment down the line
Banjos ring and chickens squall, and little babies crow
The winter leaves, and the spring unwinds, and summer comes again you know
Pink is the color of my true love’s dress, and black is the color of her heart
But I could never leave old Virgini’, and so it never parts
Ebony face, ebony nails, ebony coffin on the rails
Moving south, C-O-D, going home to mother
Some said for valor, for glory, for treasure, for pride
Sometimes brother hates brother
So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It’s much too hard to try to live a lie at home
My boots are cracked with road dirt and asphalt, spit, and broken dreams
Chewing gum and safety pins, all what holds me in at the seams
My pegs are loose, my screws too tightly wound to get in tune
But I still try sometimes on those golden summer afternoons
So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It’s much too hard to try to live a lie at home
There’s a picture of an old black man, in a beaver hat
He wears a hidden smile and a pair of white spats
Don’t pretend you didn’t notice his stare
You’re edgy, and sweating, and loaded for bear
The skeletons dance tonight, bring your bottle and your boots
And your mandolin that Bianca Alatorre tried to shoot
Oh but what’s a bullet hole or two between friends?
And who can say when the well goes dry where the story ends?
So take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It’s much too hard to try to live a lie at home
Hotel lives and hotel wives that come and go with the sheets
But what’s a marriage if it can’t be held up to kitchen heat?
Once I knew each valley and that beautiful shore
But I don’t go to the summer fair much anymore
So take a trip wherever your conscience says to roam
It’s much too much to try and live a lie at home
Your harmonica is blow baby, throw it away
Your denim shirt is ragged and your dirty collar is frayed
I tried to play my horn for you, but I couldn’t seem to find a note
So I picked up pen and paper, and this is what I wrote
Go take a trip wherever your conscience has to roam
It’s much too hard to try to live a lie at home
Source: Musixmatch
Band:
Willie Watson – guitar
Paul Kowert – bass
Gillian Welch – guitar/vocals
Brittany Haas – fiddle
Dave Rawlings – guitar/vocal
Dave Rawlings Machine performing live in the KEXP studio. Recorded October 24, 2015.
Songs: Short Haired Woman Blues
The Last Pharaoh
The Weekend
Sweet Tooth
