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IAN | A WHOLE BUNCH OF VOWELS

All songs written, performed, sampled, programmed
and recorded by Ian Colvert

* words by Shel Silverstein

A WHOLE BUNCH OF VOWELS

This is my love album. I drafted this album with women in mind. Women who have been around, lived, loved, hurt, enduring sweetly, and sprightly persevered. So if you are that sort of woman, this album is for you.

01 | BEAUTIFUL (2:20)
(2,742 kb, .mp3, right click, 'save as')

You are beautiful
Starts with a “B” ends with an “L”
In the middle a whole bunch of vowels

You are beautiful
You don’t need a man to take command
He’d better learn how to kneel

A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle
You are beautiful

Always with you wherever you are in the world
So smile girl
You are beautiful

Because baby saying no does not mean maybe
You don’t need a man
Y ou need a gentleman who will understand the lady

Because self-worth should not be a four letter word
Confidence comes not from the sun
It shines from you inward

You have your problems just like all of the world
So smile girl you are beautiful

You have your problems so does the rest of the world
Get on with it woman
You are beautiful

You are beautiful
Beauty is not on the outside
It is not what a man can feel

You are beautiful
The fabric of life can be repaired
Just thread the eye of a needle

Starts with a “B” ends with an “L”
In the middle a whole bunch of vowels
You are beautiful

So smile girl, you are beautiful
Smile, woman, you are beautiful

A friend of mine was having a tough time of things, so I wrote her this little corny song called Beautiful to cheer her up.

02 | TWO FACES (3:04)
(2,886 kb, .mp3, right click, 'save as')

I live in a head that has two faces
In a forest of cement and a city of trees
I live in a head that has two faces
Like the lobes of the brain split by the thieves

I know I was stolen the jewels of the trees
The cement was left a joke from the thieves

With a tulip nose
And buttercup eyes
And a mind and soul
As laughing gold daisies

May I be the sun to warm you?
May I be the rain to feed you?
May I be the great Mother Earth to hold you?

I know I was stolen the jewels of the trees
The cement was left a joke from the thieves

Somewhere in high school I was in a poetry class. Sitting in front of me was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Sheen black hair and divine eyes. I sat behind her for months completely frozen by debilitating fear. One day our exercise was to write a poem concerning the affection of another. I wrote Two Faces (then called Garden) for the beautiful girl sitting in front of me.

The next day our teacher asked us to hand our poem to the person in front of us for critique. I was horrified! The poem whom I had written for was reading it! I can remember her shoulders as she read it; they kinda melted. My heart racing. She turned to me, twisting in those little desks, and her bright eyes looking into mine, and she said sweetly, “That was the most beautiful poem I have ever read.”

And -- boy! -- i've been on Cloud 9 ever since!

03 | 25 MINUTES TO GO (3:42)
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Well they’re building a gallows outside my cell
And I got 25 minutes to go
The whole town is waitin’ just to hear me yell
24 minutes to go
Well they fed me beans for my last meal
23 minutes to go
Nobody‘s askin’ me how I feel
22 minutes to go
I sent for the governor and the whole darn bunch
21 minutes to go
I called up the mayor but he’s out to lunch
20 minutes to go
The sheriff said, "Boy, I’m gonna watch you die”
19 minutes to go
I laughed in his face and I spit in his eye
18 minutes to go

Now here comes the preacher to save my soul
13 minutes to go
He’s talkin’ ‘bout burnin' but I’m so cold
12 minutes to go
They’re testing the trap and it chills my spine
11 minutes to go
And the trap and the rope well now they work just fine
10 minutes to go
I’m waitin’ for the pardon that will set me free
9 minutes to go
This ain’t the movies so forget about me
8 minutes to go

With my feet on the trap and my head in the noose
5 minutes to go
Somebody come and cut me lose
4 minutes to go
I can see the mountains, I can see the sky
3 minutes to go
It’s too darn pretty for a man to want to die
2 minutes to go
I can see the buzzards, I can hear the crows
1 minute to go

And now I’m swingin', here I go!

I first heard Johnny Cash singing this Shel Silverstein song on Cash’s cornerstone album recorded live at Folsom Prison. Mr. Cash performed the song in a laugh-a-billy style that I felt didn’t quite match up with Mr. Silverstien’s wonderful lyric. I thought a more serious approach could put a healthy surreal twist on the humor.

I hope that the estate of the late, great Mr. Silverstein doesn’t mind my interpretation of his words, or that I am freely giving them away on my website.

04 | TRY (3:30)
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I’ve got my eyes set on a woman
Brings my life a shiny little moment
I try; she’s the higher law

I’ve got my eyes set on a woman
Brings my demise despite good intentions
I try; she brings the law

Goodbye lover
Never found another
Get in your taxes and cry

She never understood why I drunk so foolishly
Spent it all
Never kept receipts

Woman of the lonesome kind
Heart and soul turns on a dime

Stabbing morons
Shoes that walk on
Only because I
Try

My big shtick years and years ago was that I would record a song for a girl (nowadays I just talk to them). It became my way of dealing with my anxiety -- if I had a crush on a girl I would record her a song and hand it to her. I did this to at least thirty different girls during that time. Most slightly amused and oddly flattered. A few cautiously surprised. Two became the loves of my life.

But one girl didn’t appreciate her song in the slightest, and a Police Man came knocking on my door. The Police Man wanted to talk to me alone in his patrol car. I had no idea what was going on, and worse, my mother was sick at the time, and I was convinced Police Man was going to tell me my mother died.

I was crying, hyperventilating, shaking, saying, “Just give it to me straight, sir. Just give it to me straight.”

Police Man says, “If I said the name (insert her name here), would you know what I was talking about?”

I didn’t recognize the name, because I thought my mom was dead. I said, “What? Who? What are you talking about?”

Police Man said the name again and I still didn’t know who he was talking about until he mentioned that I had given her a song.

I was very relieved my mother wasn’t dead. The Police Man ordered me to never write (insert her name here) another song. Which was fine with me -- I guess some people can’t handle being metaphors -- and never spoke to (insert her name here) again.

But of course I did write her another song (after all, songs arrive to me as easily as sneezing), a song called Try -- a song that contains samples from my roommate’s record collection; samples I have long forgotten who or why.

Try is my orphan song -- it's the only song I ever took the time to record that was never given to the person intended. But don’t let (insert her name here) know about it, though -- she’ll probably call the cops!

05 | THE MEDICINE SPOON (3:15)
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The medicine spoon

Under your room
Under your hallway
Under the moon
Stars are shining
Under your room

The medicine spoon

My favorite place in Arcata is Hey Juan’s Burritos located on the north side of G street. Long ago a remarkably beautiful woman worked there, bubbly in a festooned sort of way.

By this time I could actually talk to women quite well (and my songs no longer were required entities, rather, exceedingly rare accoutrements). But she was just such a wonderful person I recorded her a song anyway. I’m sorry to say I have forgotten her name. All I remember is that she was from Georgia. But she had such a sunshine about herself that The Medicine Spoon hardly does her justice.

Again, The Medicine Spoon contains a sample from my old roommate’s record collection. And, again, I forgot who or why.

06 | HEAVEN (4:38)
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Heaven, child, is a different kind of velvet
Makes you turn awhile and never want to care
Like a hundred thousand miles
Without checking oil
Brings you a different style
Where people like to stare

Pouring the salt into the soil
Spilling the milk left to spoil
Kiss the honey without getting the stung
And blow the bubbles without swallowing the gum

I said Heaven, child, is the dirty laundry
Left out to dry with stains that never fade
It’s the escapade that held up the savings
The monies that got away blew up in your face

Primary colors left askew
Looking for a different shade of hue
You’ve got the fingers stuck in the bubble gum
You’ve got a wasp looking for an unaccounted sum

Heaven, child, is the northern lights
The aspen branches looking for delight

When I was young and foolish I drove around the United States of America for no reason. I drove to New Brunswick, the Florida Keys, to San Diego, Seattle, and back to Montana again. I slept in my truck, bathed twice, rode my unicycle in unique places, and kept in touch with just one person -- a beautiful girl who lived in Alaska (long before I ever thought of going to Alaska).

I just thought she was Heaven.

Years later I reincarnated the poem I wrote for her in the form of a techno-blitzed song, Heaven. Again, it contains a whole mess of samples from my old roommate’s record collection that I have long forgotten who or why.

07 | SWARTHY GIRL (2:51)
(3,353 kb, .mp3, right click, 'save as')

Where are you, miss?
You are in California
I am from the United States
I am going in the direction
East of the angles
I am in the desert

How are you, miss?
I am feeling bad because
I can not understand Spanish
My English no longer serves me

My swash letters, sweet alyssum
For a swarthy girl

What do you have, miss?
White flowers, and letters in English.
Contrast dark with my pale face
To be so close and so far away

My swash letters, sweet alyssum
For a swarthy girl

This is an old, old recording from my ancient 4 track cassette recorder. I recorded it for an amazingly beautiful girl that I shared a Spanish Class with, Trusha. She was of a different race -- and I know this sounds corny, but as a young man race was an issue for me (must have been the result of being raised in an all white, middleclass Montana), but Trusha busted my prejudice. She sure was sweet, and I sure do miss holding her hand.

I knew her briefly while I lived in Palm Springs, California. I think about her to this day -- perhaps much more than I should. I wonder what happened to Trusha?

08 | NO PART OR TRACE (4:26)
(5,202 kb, .mp3, right click, 'save as')

I want you to know your own name
Not only the tragically
Bright lights shine and cylinders bring none the same
Grafting concrete is necessity

Thumbin’ a ride open road
Thumbin’ a ride open road
Thumbin’ a ride

Suddenly lost with me the faith
Blind
Walk with me to retrieve a trace
No
Only I will try to not face gears of time

Bring only belong with me

Thumbin’ a ride open road
Thumbin’ a ride open road
Thumbin’ a ride

Is my life
Is my life over

Like redemption softly spoken taste where I go
Over night in the alleyway
Right signs with the wrong say
No part or trace

Come alive tonight
Believe all the magical things of your dreams
Along with the practical things laced with strings

Thumbin’ a ride open road
Thumbin’ a ride open road
Thumbin’ a ride

Is my life
Is my life is my life
My life is over

I did a silly thing. I had it in my head that I needed to experience poverty. I decided I would go homeless for one week. But not just homeless in some sort of America suburbia sort of way. I’m talking homeless in the most extreme mode I knew at the time -- the horrendous poverty of Tijuana, Mexico.

I drove my car to the border, hid my wallet inside my seat, hid my keys in the engine, and with just shoes, t-shirt, poncho, denim pants, and my driver’s license stuffed in my underwear did I walk across the border, and sat in the most putrid, disgusting, impoverished area possible -- right smack dab next to the sewer, where the Indians begged passing American tourists for change.

The nights were very, very, very, VERY scary. I learned people are fundamentally disgusting, selfish, cruel, petty, crass creatures. I also learned that the most beautiful things in the world can come from the most unexpected places. The Indians looked after me. Even though I could not speak their language, they offered me what little they had in food and water. I became like their pet or something.

At the time it moved me to tears how selfless the poorest of the poor are, while the pigs of humanity all around mock them, belittle them, smugly take advantage of them, even literally piss on them.

After the experience I went back to my car, put on my decent clothes, and walked back to the Indians. I gave them all the cash I had and shook their hands, giving as much respect and dignity as I could. And drove back to Palm Springs. I wrote No Part Or Trace shortly after.

The strange thing is just a couple of days ago I came across this song, and it completely caught me off guard; I had completely forgot I ever wrote it, or recorded it for that matter. And hearing it for the first time in over ten years it hit me like a brick. I mean, just broke me like a car crash.

I wonder what happened to those Indians and their starving little kids?

09 | WALK ON THE MOON (2:40)
(3,143 kb, .mp3, right click, 'save as')

Ambition plays the cadence
Antiquity invades a swaurey
Belief is out the door
Goodness is a voyeur who pays to watch them screw
The cork of the merlot that says he really, really loves you
A shame they pour the fool

Remember numbers only build the rocket ships
You need the theatrics to place
The man on the moon

The poet only writes the poem
The artist paints just a picture of the moon
A song can only be sung
And the moon stays a romantic notion

I want to walk on the moon
I want to walk on the moon
I want to walk on the moon

I have the numbers to build the rocket ship
But I forgot the theatrics
I forgot the theatrics
I forgot
I forgot how to
Dream

You are the moon
I am in orbit
In Orbit
Please remind me how to land

In my book, Closer To The Food Chain, there is a character named Corn; who represents the lived and worn Arcata scene of Humboldt State University. In real life I knew her as the Sandwich Girl, and, a couple times, I used to help her steal food from the school and feed it to the homeless.

She was an art major and I envied her terribly; she was wildly creative, fresh, vibrant and always on the move. I wrote her several songs that she gleamed over, enjoying, saying, “It’s all you, kid!”

One of those songs was Walk On The Moon, a desperate ode from a computer scientist wishing to be as shiny as an art major.

10 | A GOLD STAR IN THE GHETTO (3:04)
(3,595 kb, .mp3, right click, 'save as')

We all have a spirit. Some good, some bad
Evil is my spirit, on my shoulder a concrete slab

When comes midnight I howl at the moon
Put on my cowboy boots with spurs made out of alcohol jugs
I don’t mind waking up the neighbors

I don't belong nowhere there is rules
That is why I chose University than paying my dues
Like sleeping the streets of Tijuana

I can not kiss a girl past 18
I like them young, naïve, believing fame will come to me
I’m only living off student loans 'til I am discovered

Yeah – I’m walking sidewalks paved of gold
Sidewalks paved of gold
Until my gravestone is a gold star in the ghetto

"Whilst they behold a greater then themselves
And therefore are they very dangerous
I’d rather tell thee what is to be feared
Than what I fear
For I always am" *

We all have a spirit. Some good, some bad
Evil is my spirit, on my shoulder a concrete slab
Like a child pulls up on a scab

* taken from William Shakespear's Julius Ceaser, when Ceaser tells Brutus that he does not fear those that conspire against him

Back in college my neighbor, The Pig, fancied himself a rock star; he was the singer of a local garage band foolishly keen on making it big on MTV. In reality (and in my opinion) he was perhaps one of the most disgusting human beings I have ever met -- the classic spoiled rich kid forced into University on the parent’s dime with the vain hope he’d get over his rock star fantasies.

One night -- in the wee morning hours -- he burst outside drunk as a skunk shouting bloody hell at some girl who he had just slept with (the words he used were more crass, more descriptive). And to this girl he blubbered what he thought her place in this world was; which evidently had nothing to do with him when his clothes were on. The poor girl stood crying, humiliated at the very public episode, and certainly regretting her hasty decision of exchanging bodily fluids with him.

While this was going on I grabbed my guitar and banged out A Gold Star In The Ghetto. I made it a cute little Ian style gift and handed it to the The Pig shortly thereafter. I said, “I usually write songs for girls, but for you I made an exception.”

The Pig was so vain he asked that I autograph it for him! I did, wrote an expletive followed by a "you," and then my name.

11 | UNDESERVED (3:20)
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There is a girl who does not know how lucky she is
There is a boy in this world who wants nothing more
Than to show how much she is

She’s a stupid girl, unsure of the world, carries her boys
Like bottles of milk
Until they curdle from expiration dates

The boy is as dumb, as dumb as they come,
He’s never going to figure out when he should run
He stays true, and sticks to his faith

For a whole year the boy tries to figure her out
Weighs her on a scale between faith and doubt
Until the arm of justice rusted from all the wait

All he knows she’s not worth this
Not worth the price, not worth a piss
And no one should ever be that beautiful

It must be a crime to be that beautiful
It must be a crime because I’m hurt

Love is undeserved. Undeserved
Love is undeserved. Undeserved

You don’t care about me. You only want where I am going:
Cartoons and the songs, and when the cream is gone
You leave me hanging on
And on
And on, and on, and on

Love is undeserved. Undeserved
Love is undeserved. Undeserved
Love is undeserved.

I was in an airplane leaving Charleston, looking over my shoulder, out the window, at the flat, populated peninsula lowering rapidly beneath me. I had this strange reflex, a last gasp -- I was desperately thinking of ways to fix this mess, to work something out, to salvage a dysfunctional relationship, to continue to love that woman somehow.

What a fool I am.

I turned away from the window, said, “Nope. It’s over.”

And just like that five years snapped, a clean slate drawn, and the slow process toward healing began.