Alas from Amateur by Maury Smith and the Orchestra Bordenave

About Alas

This is one of several tunes, along with Warm November Afternoons, Gifts from a Whole New World and a couple of others, that all came to me in a rush one weekend in November of 2015.

Whew!

That nearly naked elm out back sure giveth around that time of year, and it has been doing so for more than a decade now. Merci.

This particular tune was written under the influence of Martin Amis’ terrific novel, The Zone of Interest (a tough read but a great book) from which I’ve blatantly stolen several memorable lines.

In hindsight I see this suite of Nov. ’15 tunes as representing the last gasp of my deep fretting over the horrid state of the world in general (and climate change specifically) that came to dominate my worldview for 10 years. What? You hadn’t noticed? Wait…have we met?

Maybe my fear and loathing gland was capable of pumping out only so much angst over so many years that it finally crapped out altogether. Or maybe all deep depressions culminate at some point. Who’s to say? I only know I’m struck by how abruptly the shift occurred between the mental conditions that led to these dark tunes (and the many years’ worth of so many others) on the one hand, and the more joyous and playful stuff that followed, on the other.

I never know where my songwriting is going, but it’s usually clear where it came from, at least in hindsight. And in hindsight it’s clear I’ve sloughed off that deep heartbreak that came from taking all this horrid shit so personally and feeling as if it were my job to do something about it in some grand way.

The songs that came after that songwriting blizzard of a weekend—the rest of the stuff on this album and all the other new ones I haven’t recorded yet—describe a healing process whose regimen consists of observant dog walks, the enrichment of new relationships and the playful joy derived from goofy conversations.

Maybe it’s like Voltaire’s Candide in a way—“After enduring war, massacre, disease, arrest, torture, treachery, earthquake, shipwreck, inquisition, and enslavement” in search of evidence that this is, indeed, the best of all possible worlds as Dr. Pangloss suggests, “he concludes, since the evils of the world are overwhelming, that all one can do is to put one’s own affairs in order. Candide’s closing words are, ‘il faut cultiver notre jardin’ (we have to cultivate our own garden.)*

I’m not done caring about the future. I have children. But I’m clearly done writing songs like this one. And I’m glad that the stuff I make up acts as a roadmap of where my heart’s been and what kind of beating it’s taken. I feel luck to have souvenirs like these from my travels.


This one was a bouzouki tune from the start. I had planned to open the album with Marchita, but the brazen banjo entry of that ballad is a little shocking, and the warm tones of the old zook are so mellow and welcoming by comparison. Don’t you agree? Timothy absolutely rocks out on this one and provides the necessary spine from which the endlessly noodling guitar jangles its many limbs. Count on me to bring Jacoba’s accordion, Bruno, in at the top of the second verse. It’s a cliche for a reason—because it works! Al contributes vocals and you can’t blame Kevin for the bass on this one—that’s me again pretending four strings are as easy to play as five or six or eight.

Anybody catch the irony of repeating “my message will be mercifully short” over and over and over at the end? Tee heee…

*From Norman Davis: Europe, A History.

Love me some songwriting. Sure dig playing my fretted instruments. Lucked my way into some amazing musical friendships. Get a huge kick out of recording, mixing and editing songs. Travel brings new tunes my way. So does sitting out back looking at the seasons...and sharing time with my sweetie ties both together, adding the most potent inspiration year in and year out.