A Bothersome Injuries Forty (Vol. 1) - EP

by James O'Brien

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1.
Last American (Live 2002) 05:57
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The boy was quick, the boy was small. In my dreams, he crawled under the shells. As he was torn, his father flailed around him; I shot up, I could not stand the vision. “Oh my friend, oh my friend,” you whispered. “Not a dream but half asleep, the broadcast. The flickering blue, the news, the truth: the news is broken but the vision was real.” One of these days, I’m gonna take my skin down One of these days, I’m may learn my meditation One of these days, I’ll get myself collected stand up in your aisles, give away your endings In my boots you cannot stop me, the last American Yitzhak Rabin took the slugs; I had a dream: buck-naked, I floated over that scene. The blood he shed, it took shape of dove; the dove came to life and lighted on my shoulder. Wrapped in mist, I floated there still. Around me closed circles of gulls. The dove took flight and flapped them to the boundaries, crying, “Don’t you touch him, dirtbags.” And in his eyes I saw my father. One of these days, I’m gonna take my skin down One of these days, I’m may learn my meditation One of these days, I’ll get myself collected stand up in your aisles, give away your endings And in my boots you cannot stop me, the last American So, if you’ve got a son, then push him down. This is not the kind of town you walk around in. There are walls, when it gets dark we hunker down. It used to be a mosque, a shopping mall. Now, it’s dripping, weeping concrete. This is not the holy land you seek. Though the pamphlets says it’s right beneath your feet, it is really in our hands and rubber rifles; sympathy has flood tides like the Nile — the temple stones are John-Wayne ammunition. So, maybe it is not what it has seemed, though it floats there, all liquid, on your screen, and you thrash as if in your own dream while they deliver it to you like milk. One of these days, I’m gonna take my skin down One of these days, I’m may learn my meditation One of these days, I’ll get myself collected stand up in your aisles, give away your endings And in my boots you cannot stop me (stop me) the last American the last American the last American the last American the last American
2.
Indian Summer (Live 2002) 05:49
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Indian summer tricks a clever heart, that’s why I told you. Maybe, baby, everything you read about me is true. I paint you modern daily, make you coffee when you want it; you’re not happy. I pot your plants, pull your weeds; complications come in threes. It’s mathematic, -atic, App-Appomattox. I just wanted to write you something good I just wanted to write you something good Helium bursts a healthy lung, that’s why I told you. Lately there are ghosts up on this stage all around me. Intertwined, arms and legs, kind of kamasutra. And the red pox: fold the blankets. Come then, now. Now then, slow delivery. Botulism. Botulism. I just wanted to write you something good I just wanted to write you something good I just wanted to write you something good Rock-and-roll cheats your wise man’s tongue, that’s why I told you. Paris, London, Rome, Berlin; Beijing, China; Kabul, Afghanistan … All the ESP receptors in the Lower East Village sewers, they are listening carefully, listening carefully. I just wanted to write you something good I just wanted to write you something good I just wanted to write you something good I just wanted to write you something good I just wanted to write you something good (something good) I just wanted to write you something good
3.
Jo's Tires (Live 2002) 03:42
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Well, I never held a job. No, I never saw that light. I figure this is all you get, so you’d better get it right. And I knew a girl named Jo, and she gave me her car. She said, “Drive baby, drive baby, though you’re already far, far away.” I’m a real a real live wire these are Jo’s tires I used to be wrong with my Dad. It was like we were on trial. Now, we’re just all right; things have changed as they tend to after a while. I could think of you as Jo, with the sun in her eyes. I’d say, “Jo are you lonely?” You’d just smile and stretch and sigh. I’m a real a real live wire these are Jo’s tires I used to think ill of my lovers if they had left me behind. But I saw you yesterday; I think everything will be all right. I could think of you as Jo, as with the moon in your hair, crying, “Why baby, why baby, what did you not find here?” I’m a real a real live wire these are Jo’s tires I’m a real, real, real, real, real a real live wire These are Jo’s tires I never held a job. No, I never saw that light. I figure this is all you get, so you’d better get it right.
4.
Surrender (Demo 2002) 03:34
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When they come to take you, I hope they take you slowly. If they try to break you, may you give them a good fight. If they cap you with silence, may you go like thunder, make them wonder who they thought you were. When we are old and this feels like too much to eat, there is still an open verdant sunlit place where you and I shall meet: in the riverbed, in the overgrowth, with ESP, feel the wind, now feel the weight of your bones. I am not out of love today I don’t know the strength to say surrender I have walked the streets of sick cities with beaten feet and sodium lamps, seen the tattered fragments of our dreams cling to corner bricks and sidewalk cracks. From the mailbox, from the curb, in the darkening glow, I know I don’t know where you are anymore. I am not out of love today I don’t know the strength to say surrender I am not out of love today I don’t know the strength to say surrender There’s a kitchen table washed in sunlight and there is coffee on it. You come in all drifting with sleep. I hand you a section of the morning paper; you sit down to read. I am not out of love today I don’t know the strength to say surrender Say surrender
5.
Paint (Live 2005) 03:52
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I used to paint most every afternoon, just a brush, a few tubes, a little canvas. I’d spread what it was I had around, see what formed from the messes I made. You said, “Paint, that stuff is poison, like lead, like lye, like mercury; get it on your hands and it could do some damage.” I said, “That explains a few things. But since we’re talking about paint and poison, would you like to get a cup of coffee?” I just paint I just paint I used to watch you for hours in your noise and your colors and lights. It was like you swallowed a chunk of the tongue of God, which hit your belly, then your fingers, then your teeth. You said, “My belly, well mostly it feels empty and my fingers have started to bleed. My teeth could crack at almost any moment. I don’t know what it is that I want, or what I need.” I just paint I just paint Now, like God, this will demand a conversion; strip you bare, make you say what it is you’re scared of. Like God, this will certainly divide you from what you think and what you love.” So you sit and sip your coffee. You consider the blackness of your cup. You say, “Paint … I thought you were a singer. Now all this talk of canvas and God.” I said, “Songs … that stuff is poison; link absinthe, like LSD. Get it in your head and it’ll do some damage." As for me (as for me) … I just paint I just paint I just paint
6.
The War Has Come (Live 2004) 06:11
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Rich white American children crawl from the suburbs and go to a college where they learn a second language; sometimes the language is a dead one (it does not bother them). Other American children come from the city and join an army, where they’re certified to kill or heal; if they fail at either they come home dead (it does not bother them). Sometimes I can’t believe these things I write; I write down anything. Pulling songs from the mouth of unbelieving, it’s only words, (it does not bother me). It’s easy to write a bullet, it does not hiss it is not close to me. It’s easy to write a wound, I’ve never clamped a femoral artery. Hey, hey, hey, the war has come Hey, the war has come Sometimes I see a cop, I think I’d make a good officer. Sometimes I see you on the street, I think, I’m glad I’m not a cop and this ain’t my beat. Some nights I sleep in my truck, I want a handgun in my glove compartment. Some nights you make a noise, thank God there’s no handgun in our apartment. Hey, hey, hey, the war has come Hey, the war has come You know, ever since this started, I’ve wanted someone to get it over with, to give me the bite or the bug or the bomb or the backbone to drive a plane into the ground. Some folks I know, they’ve fled to places like France or places like Australia; they’re the vanguard of an exodus or they’re rabbits running, running scared. But all I’ve got’s these four chords and the mercy that you’ve granted me. I want to show you something true: the truth’s the ugliest kid you’ll ever see. Hey, hey, the war has come Hey, the war has come Hey, hey, hey, the war has come Hey, hey, hey, the war has come Hey, hey, hey, the war has come Hey, hey, hey, the war has come The war has come The war has come The war has come The war has come The war has come

about

Volume One starts on a night in 2002. The show was at Club Passim in Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts. My younger brother was late; it was a sleety, snowy night and we worried. But he arrived safely and the music was pretty good. That’s what you hear me talking about just before "Last American" starts up. The whole thing concluded with the audience and yours truly marching across the square through the cold and wet to the original location of the old Club 47. We finished up with a song there, in what was by then a convenience store. A number of the photos in the liner notes of 'Church of the Kitchen Sink' show the scene. We did return to Passim afterwards; I played “Colorado” sitting on the edge of the stage. Anyway, these first three tracks are from that evening. I wish I’d worked more with Dylan, the drummer on “Last American” and “Indian Summer” and "Surrender". He did great things for the songs and his harmonies are amazing.

“Surrender” is an outtake, unfinished, from sessions for 'Church of the Kitchen Sink'. We’d been recording and mixing the album for what seemed like forever. It was hard work, making those records. We canned it rather than debating any further whether to rerecord it or change our approach to the arrangement. The song does deserve a place in the catalog — it was a staple of the shows — so here it is, mostly standing on its own two feet after all this time.

I always felt that “Paint” was a bit shameless — wearing its influences on its sleeve too obviously — but in this recording it does sound like my own song and I’m glad this version exists. The Lilypad live track comes from 2005, after I’d pretty much put aside touring and playing concerts (which is another story for another time). This show was a one-off event at this little room in Inman Square, Cambridge. A scrappy venue, a good show, and you can hear that I’m pretty relaxed — post-ambitious you might say — just letting the song breathe and inhabiting it.

“The War Has Come” ends up being one of my favorites and this is a strong performance of it, in my opinion. You can't hear it on this track, but it was a contentious set at The Point in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. A few minutes prior to this recorded moment, a guy at the back offered his strong opinion about singers speaking about politics between songs. I was a little bit overwhelming in my response but there was still truth about art, and topical artists, and audiences, in my reply. I’m OK with what happened. If you were there, you saw it. Also, I loved shows that crackled with that kind of drama. I believe that listeners often did as well. After this song, and this show, I remember thinking that it probably didn’t get much better in terms of all the pieces falling into place — playing, singing, risk, positive response — and thinking that maybe I should stop while it still felt really good. I felt that way after the 2002 show as well, wanting to freeze what felt like a perfect feeling and never have to move past it.

All these tracks were mastered in 2017 by Matt Girard.
The artwork is by Joe Kowan.

credits

released September 1, 2017

Last American: 2002 ; Drums: Dylan Callahan ; Recorded/Mixed by: Steven Friedman, Melville Park Studio, Boston, Mass. ; Venue: Club Passim, Cambridge, Mass. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017

Indian Summer: 2002 ; Drums: Dylan Callahan ; Recorded/Mixed by: Steven Friedman, Melville Park Studio, Boston, Mass. ; Venue: Club Passim, Cambridge, Mass. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017

Jo’s Tires: 2002 ; Recorded/Mixed by: Steven Friedman, Melville Park Studio, Boston, Mass. ; Venue: Club Passim, Cambridge, Mass. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017

Surrender: c. 2002 ; Drums: Dylan Callahan ; Recorded/Mixed by: Jordan Tishler ; Studio: Digital Bear, Boston, Mass. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017

Paint: 2005 ; Recorded/Mixed by: onstage recording to laptop ; Venue: Lilypad, Cambridge, Mass. Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017

The War Has Come: c. 2004 ; Recorded/Mixed by: unknown (possibly onstage recording to laptop) ; Venue: The Point, Bryn Mawr, Penn. ; Mastered by: Matt Girard, Transference Audio, 2017

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James O'Brien New York, New York

James O’Brien toured the U.S. and the U.K. from 1998–2004 playing politically aware songs, sometimes solo and sometimes with a band, sharing billings with artists such as Hamell on Trial, Dan Bern, Michael McDermott, John Sinclair, Bill Miller and Freedy Johnson.

In 2017, after a 13-year hiatus, he began to release archival and new material, expanding his catalog to fourteen albums as of 2022. ... more

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