This is the oldest recording I have. The lyric is once again by my brother, Dr. Peter Fields and the melody and music were inspired by his words. This is about his own experiences "up north" and I will add anecdotal info from him as it becomes available.
The drums are of the machine variety from that little 26 or 7 key toy Yamaha keyboard I had at the time, along with the organ sound. The bass line was added quite a bit later since I would not own a real bass for several more months. The vocals were done with the Radio Shack mic and the built-in reverb of my old Tascam Porta-5 4-track cassette recorder, the DigiTech provided the delay effects. I still like the song to this day, and despite the toy-sounding drum machine, it rocks in my ears. This is some of my earliest recorded lead guitar work and to me, it shows. Back then, my fingers were limber and so the ideas just flowed. The guitar used is the strat-copy with no modifications (they came somewhat later), so it has that trademark single-coil sound, and with minimal distortion, in fact, it's almost "clean", which seems to fit the song.
The first line of this song: "Spending all day at open air exhibitions", was sadly and accidentally erased from the only tape of it I currently have, so it's gone forever. Try to imagine it as having the same melody and background as the 2nd line: "speaking moments...".
(Spending all day at open air exhibitions), speaking moments with lovers who want to tell.
Who want to face you, who want to give themselves, but who've been put away in unused collections.
I believe, everything shall sweep, full and brash toward a season of forgiveness.
I believe, everything shall sweep, full and brash toward a season of forgiveness.
Here are the startled acrylic tones, here is the dried blood palette.
Here are the fearful immigrants of the soul, here is the cheerless race.
Here is the long prayed-for planet, already arrived, but refused in your bed.
So there was much, that slipped away. There was treasure we gave up in the night.
There was a whole heart and mind we couldn't keep from eyes, there was a chance we didn't take that glittered in the ditch.
I have been all evening in these places of hurt impression, across the table among empty bottles and scratchy record songs.
I believe, everything shall sweep, full and brash toward a season of forgiveness.
I believe, everything shall sweep, full and brash toward a season of forgiveness.
...and know in this generation, in this town laid down in a flannel snow.
Oh yes, there shall be an unrecalled operation, and the heart shall gain new beats,
ooh, and live giving flow.
For I've spent my days all night, in the yellow sodium light. on upturned sidewalks in small tourist towns where I meant to hide.
I know there's only one word, people can always keep, that there's one thing no one wants endlessly,
that in each of us, in all the world, there is loneliness, it hurries a solution over the pain and spitefulness.
I believe, everything shall sweep, full and brash toward a season of forgiveness.
I believe, everything shall sweep, full and brash toward a season of forgiveness.
and know in silent recognition, that a long work is done, that the snow counseled and that it went as well,
that we're shooed like sleepwalkers, blinking into the sun.
And courtesy is waived, nothing is noted, but a passing thought perhaps, an old intuition,
a subconscious workman's bet.
That something indeed had changed the years, that there were better times whistled in the air.
That there had been, a season of forgiveness wistful here, there's an unknown painter's smock over your chair.
This day will come, with new hopes thinking on in further wishes, as I race home again in the open air.
I believe, everything shall sweep, full and brash toward a season of forgiveness.
I believe, everything shall sweep, full and brash toward a season of forgiveness.
There is no secret that shall resist the earth, there is no order but the lightning of universe.
I'm on a hill, in the brilliant, brilliant, manic afternoon.
words and music copyright (c) 1988 by Dr. Peter Fields and Craig Fields, all rights reserved.