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Bluebird Conversations.

from The Basin Stone by Gareth Scott

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    Rough shod folk and songwriting from the Upper Calder Valley.
    Six years is a long time to record an Album. There was even some times that I thought this might be a posthumous release... but here it is. 'Enjoy' might not be the right word to commend it to you with - but THANKS! Thanks for taking a copy off my hands...

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about

On Wharf Street in Sowerby Bridge of recent times was The Bluebird Cafe. An institution of tea and greasy spoonerism. I used to 'knick off' school and play the video games in the back room there. This song was written whilst eavesdropping on my dinner break.

lyrics

Come in lad the outside now is frozen
I hold the door wide open for your walker
Inside the folks complain of cold
Of the door that I opened wide for Arthur
Well its such a cold day
Outside the Bluebird Cafe
Still the old boy is greeted now with laughter
And for a bit more taste upon your dinner plate
Each salt seller is emptied out and shaken
And all those pension day grumbles sweetened up with the crumbles
And the best of Peters home made baking.
In the window sits a teenage mother
Who sits there with her baby daughter
Not out of hospital three days
The bairn was a surprise she says,
And varifocalled eyes, all roll to the skies
As she explains her baby's name
Well it was a little game that I used to play, she says
As I lie in bed my belly growing
That names an anagram of an absentee mans name
Who left without his baby ever knowing.
Well I leaned that stirring up my coffee
I learned that staring at my food
And it took great guts that conversation
Because their inquisition it was rude!
And that girls answers were courageous
And I know that she never lied, no she never lied.. except maybe to herself.

Arthur Old boy you are late today
The lasses have gone up to town already
You shuffle on to find you usual place..
I cannot watch you eating your spaghetti
How could I understand? how that arthritic rheumy old man.. still figured on fancying all the ladies.
And all the windows drip steam from the stewing of tea
And the bubbling of a Burco boiler
Edie is eighty three and she has not ever been.. back home once to Connemara.
Well the folk here know each others business
And in this fish bowl there are no secrets
The route of all those Sowerby Fables
Are plotted charted at these tables
And I know they never lie, I know that they never lie... except maybe to themselves.
Ah, me too. I will be waiting at these tables
And shallow falls all the conversation
Ah, me too. I will be finishing my dinner breaking
With gravy chasing knives and that free advice.. None of which I ever will be taking.
Well these old boots they were made for working.
And that is what they are going to do.
You do it as a daily grind.
Till work it walks all over you, till work it walks all over you
I hardly ever lie, I hardly ever lie...... except maybe to myeslf, except to myself.

credits

from The Basin Stone, released August 1, 2020
Jon Wilson plays the piano. Steve Smith plays the Bass. Gareth guitars and sings..

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Gareth Scott Todmorden, UK

Rough shod folk and songwriting from the Upper Calder Valley.

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