Three years ago, one day in February, I got a phone call from a woman askin if I could do a bit of paintin for her. I toul her that would be okay, that I would call round with her and see what had to be done. She wanted a bedroom painted and some skirtin boards as well, about three or four days work. Her husband had died a couple of years previous. Anyway I started the work and on the last day, I was givin the bedroom wall a final coat of paint. When I am workin like that I have a habit of singin to myself. I'm not a good singer or anything but I learn songs as a hobby as it makes my guitar playin meaningful and the best way to learn songs is to sing away at them. Well, I was singing away when the woman stuck her head round the door and asked, 'Is that Sam Stone you are singin there?' I said, 'Aye, well tryin to anyway.' She asked, 'Wasn't that John Prine who wrote that song?' I said, 'Aye. Hey, I'm surprised. I didn't think you would have heard of John Prine, never mind knowin the name of one of his songs.' She said, 'Well that was my husband's favourite song and John Prine was his favourite singer.'..
..I had only been introduced to John Prine's music in January through a man called Rob White whom I had become friends with through our love of playin guitar, well tryin to play guitar. Anyway, he lent me a DVD of a John Prine concert and I fell in love with his music, so much so, that inside a month I had learned four of his songs, one of them bein Sam Stone, the song I was singin in this woman's bedroom.
So imagine the scene: I am in the bedroom of a house I have never been in before, singin the favourite song of the man who used to sleep in the bedroom but who has passed away. The man's wife recognises the song and asks me about it and we get into a conversation about John Prine's music, how he writes and sings about everyday life in such a way that makes it so real and so true. As we are talking, her eyes fill up with tears...
..To tell you the truth my own eyes were waterin. Anyway, the woman had to go somewhere, to look at new doors or something. When she had gone I looked for something to write with and found a pencil. I started writin the words of a song on the back of as piece of sandpaper. I don't really know what made me do this. It just seemed the right thing to do. ..
..I wrote these words:....
She talks about his favourite song....
And her eyes fill up with tears....
He isn't really gone that long....
But to her it feels like years....
He was to her what bread is....
To a hungry starving child....
And she lingers on his last kiss....
As her tears fall all the while...

..I stuck the bit of sandpaper in my toolbox and went back to work. I finished the job that day, got paid and said my goodbyes. There was no more talk of John Prine or songs or anything, but when I got home I copied the words I had written into a book and started to add more to it. Since John Prine played such a major part, I decided to make the song a tribute to him, as well as writing about how music can keep alive the memory of a loved one. I wrote out a list of songs that John Prine had written and tried to put the titles of his songs into my song in a meaningful way. After a couple of hours I had three verses and a chorus. I had a song; well I had a song with no music to it. I called my song Plant One Red Rose In Paradise...
..The next mornin I got out the words of the song and sat down with my guitar. I strummed a chord and started singin the words. I'd never done anything like this before but the music just fell into place. I couldn't believe it. I had written a whole song, music and all. I sang it a few more times and it sounded okay. A couple of days later I wrote the song out in decent writin and headed round to the woman's house. I felt like a real oddball standin at her door, explainin that I had written a song based on the conversation we had the other day. She stood at the door and read the words of my song. As she read it, she cried. When she was finished she pointed to a bush in her garden that had no leaves or anything on it because it was still the middle of winter. She said, 'See that bush… that's a rose bush. Two days after my husband was buried, one red rose appeared on that bush and seemed to last forever.' When I heard that the hairs stood on the back of my neck and I just said, ' I'm outa here.'..
..This isn't end of the whole story to do with the song. It is the story of how the song came about. What happened after is even freakier. If you want to hear me tellin the story, you have to join with me in a wee jar ... or two... or maybe more down the pub and we can have a wee jammin session as well!!!! Make sure to get back to me !!!....

Standing at a crossroads

Felt I were dead

Break out of something

Obsessive in my head

In an ordinary sense

Never a good combination

Illustrating someone else’s ideas

Not my realisation

That’s the way I see it

That’s life in a shell

That’s the way I see it

Could be heaven, could be hell

Zeffirelli’s verisimilitude

Now and again be excessive

Ghastly errors like this

Are not really permissive

The Emperor of Ice Cream

The Man with the Blue Guitar

Not sure what it’s about

Naturalism gone too far

That’s the way I see it

That’s life in a shell

That’s the way I see it

Could be heaven, could be hell

Like a baron in his castle

Alone with the magic flute

Gossiping in the dry cleaners

Feeding off the brute

The Englishman in charge

A marvellous kind of man

Reading about different dynasties

Mozart in the can

That’s the way I see it

That’s life in a shell

That’s the way I see it

Could be heaven, could be hell

Finished with the paper pools

The one with the three drops

Chorus of sixty people

Punchinello with the cops

Human nature doesn’t change

A deep instinct of survival

Temples of the old religion

Sets off a revival

That’s the way I see it

That’s life in a shell

That’s the way I see it

Could be heaven, could be hell

Laid out in straight lines and cubes

Orchestra gone on strike

A full human being there

Pedalling on his bike

My best photographs

Having a common background

Synchronize the lighting

Of nature all around

That’s the way I see it

That’s life in a shell

That’s the way I see it

She’s up early in the morn

Just at the break of dawn

You’d think she had family to get out

In her favourite cushioned seat

She has a bite to eat

Then cleans up all the crumbs from round about

Then she heaves a sigh

‘Cos the clothes are stacked so high

She never had so much work to do

She’s busier than before

Though none come through the door

No husband no son nor daughter too…

She’s all alone

Just shortly after noon

She looks around the room

Decides the decoratin’s overdue

So with a spatula and cloth

She scrapes the paper off

It helps her mind to last the whole day through

It wasn’t long ago

That she watched her husband go

There’s not too many who survive the dreaded C

For forty days and nights

He put up the bravest fight

But now he’s gone to join past company…

She’s all alone

The family come about

The wanes they play and shout

And for a while their laughter fills the air

But they’ve got a life to lead

Their children to feed

She knows the score and knows they really care

And when they’ve gone away

Near the end of the day

And when she’s wiped the tears up from her face

Sure she sits in her chair

At a blank screen she does stare

And hears the echoes round the empty place…

She’s all alone

She walks down the path

When the weather’s not too bad

And sets to work with scissors in her hand

The hedge she starts to cut

Sadness wrenching at her gut

Surely this is not for her what God had planned

A thorn it draws her blood

Tears begin to flood

Punishment for just being born

But still she cuts away

For the rest of the day

It’s a long time from now until the morn…

She’s all alone

More than twenty years ago

She had to cook and sew

For a host of sons and daughters and her man

She scrubbed her knuckles bare

But didn’t really care

‘Cos all the while there was purpose to her stand

But they all moved away

Each on their wedding day

Each parting as sad as the one before

As surely as it filled

Its contents were spilled

Too soon there was only her going out the door

So now she’s on her own

So sad and so alone

The empty house like thunder in her ears

So the clothes she sets in piles

And washes more clean tiles

The bitter taste of lonesome in her tears

She turns the T.V. up

Sits down for a sup

She turns to smile but no-one does she see

Towards the mantelpiece she stares

At his picture sitting there

And wonders how long it’s going to be…..

It’s in God’s hands

It’s in God’s hands

It’s in God’s hands

Bernie Flint sings his 70s hit, "I Don't want To Put A Hold On You" (was it his only hit?) I thought he was fabulous... Bring back the mustache I say!

Plant One Red Rose In ..Paradise.. : The story behind the song....

.. ..

Last year, one day in February, I got a phone call from a woman askin if I could do a bit of paintin for her. I toul her that would be okay, that I would call round with her and see what had to be done. She wanted a bedroom painted and some skirtin boards as well, about three or four days work. Her husband had died a couple of years previous. Anyway I started the work and on the last day, I was givin the bedroom wall a final coat of paint. When I am workin like that I have a habit of singin to myself. I'm not a good singer or anything but I learn songs as a hobby as it makes my guitar playin meaningful and the best way to learn songs is to sing away at them. Well, I was singing away when the woman stuck her head round the door and asked, 'Is that Sam Stone you are singin there?' I said, 'Aye, well tryin to anyway.' She asked, 'Wasn't that John Prine who wrote that song?' I said, 'Aye. Hey, I'm surprised. I didn't think you would have heard of John Prine, never mind knowin the name of one of his songs.' She said, 'Well that was my husband's favourite song and John Prine was his favourite singer.'..
..I had only been introduced to John Prine's music in January through a man called Rob White whom I had become friends with through our love of playin guitar, well tryin to play guitar. Anyway, he lent me a DVD of a John Prine concert and I fell in love with his music, so much so, that inside a month I had learned four of his songs, one of them bein Sam Stone, the song I was singin in this woman's bedroom.
So imagine the scene: I am in the bedroom of a house I have never been in before, singin the favourite song of the man who used to sleep in the bedroom but who has passed away. The man's wife recognises the song and asks me about it and we get into a conversation about John Prine's music, how he writes and sings about everyday life in such a way that makes it so real and so true. As we are talking, her eyes fill up with tears...
..To tell you the truth my own eyes were waterin. Anyway, the woman had to go somewhere, to look at new doors or something. When she had gone I looked for something to write with and found a pencil. I started writin the words of a song on the back of as piece of sandpaper. I don't really know what made me do this. It just seemed the right thing to do. ..
..I wrote these words:....
She talks about his favourite song....
And her eyes fill up with tears....
He isn't really gone that long....
But to her it feels like years....
He was to her what bread is....
To a hungry starving child....
And she lingers on his last kiss....
As her tears fall all the while...

..I stuck the bit of sandpaper in my toolbox and went back to work. I finished the job that day, got paid and said my goodbyes. There was no more talk of John Prine or songs or anything, but when I got home I copied the words I had written into a book and started to add more to it. Since John Prine played such a major part, I decided to make the song a tribute to him, as well as writing about how music can keep alive the memory of a loved one. I wrote out a list of songs that John Prine had written and tried to put the titles of his songs into my song in a meaningful way. After a couple of hours I had three verses and a chorus. I had a song; well I had a song with no music to it. I called my song Plant One Red Rose In Paradise...
..The next mornin I got out the words of the song and sat down with my guitar. I strummed a chord and started singin the words. I'd never done anything like this before but the music just fell into place. I couldn't believe it. I had written a whole song, music and all. I sang it a few more times and it sounded okay. A couple of days later I wrote the song out in decent writin and headed round to the woman's house. I felt like a real oddball standin at her door, explainin that I had written a song based on the conversation we had the other day. She stood at the door and read the words of my song. As she read it, she cried. When she was finished she pointed to a bush in her garden that had no leaves or anything on it because it was still the middle of winter. She said, 'See that bush… that's a rose bush. Two days after my husband was buried, one red rose appeared on that bush and seemed to last forever.' When I heard that the hairs stood on the back of my neck and I just said, ' I'm outa here.'..
..This isn't end of the whole story to do with the song. It is the story of how the song came about. What happened after is even freakier. If you want to hear me tellin the story, you have to join with me in a wee jar ... or two... or maybe more down the pub and we can have a wee jammin session as well!!!! Make sure to get back to me !!!....

.. ..