@ALBUM: 89.big.circumstance Author: Bruce Cockburn ALBUM title: Big Circumstance (1989) TN-70 Total Duration: 60:57 (11 tracks) @SONG: If A Tree Falls (5:43) rain forest mist and mystery teeming green green brain facing lobotomy climate control centre for the world ancient cord of coexistence hacked by parasitic greedhead scam -- from Sarawak to Amazonas Costa Rica to mangy B.C. hills -- cortege rhythm of falling timber. What kind of currency grows in these new deserts, these brand new flood plains? If a tree falls in the forest does anybody hear? If a tree falls in the forest does anybody hear? Anybody hear the forest fall? Cut and move on Cut and move on take out trees take out wildlife at a rate of a species every single day take out people who've lived with this for 100,000 years -- inject a billion burgers worth of beef -- grain eaters -- methane dispensers -- through thinning ozone, waves fall on wrinkled earth -- gravity, light, ancient refuse of stars, speak of a drowning -- but this, this is something other. busy monster eats dark holes in the spirit world where wild things have to go to disappear forever If a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear? If a tree falls in the forest, does anybody hear? Anybody hear the forest fall? (Toronto, April 7, 1988) @SONG: Shipwrecked At the Stable Door (3:38) The man who twirled with rose in teeth has his tongue tied up in thorns, His once-expanded sense of time and space all shot and torn. See him wander, hat in hand -- "Look at me, I'm so forlorn -- ask anyone who can recall, it's horrible to be born"! Big Circumstance comes looming like a darkly roaring train -- rushes like a sucking wound across a winter plain recognizing neither polished shine nor spot nor stain -- and wherever you are on the compass rose you'll never be again. Left like a shadow on the step where the body was before -- Shipwrecked at the stable door. Big Circumstance has brought me here -- wish it would send me home. Never was clear where home is but it's nothing you can own. It can't be bought with cigarettes or nylons or perfume and all the highest bidder gets is a voucher for a tomb. Blessed are the poor in spirit -- Blessed are the meek for their shall be the kingdom that the power mongers seek. Blessed are the dead for love and those who cry for peace and those who love the gift of earth -- may their gene pool increase. Left like a shadow on the step where the body was before -- Shipwrecked at the stable door. @SONG: Gospel Of Bondage (5:45) Tabloids, bellowing raw delight hail the return of the Teutonic Knights inbred for purity and spoiling for a fight, another little puppet of the New Right. See-through dollars and mystery plagues, varied detritus of Aquarian Age. Shutters on storefronts and shutters in the mind -- we kill ourselves to keep ourselves safe from crime. that's the gospel of bondage... We so afraid of disorder we make it into a god we can only placate with state security laws, whose church consists of secret courts and wiretaps and shocks, whose priests hold smoking guns, and whose sign is the double cross. But God must be on the side of the side that's right and not the right that justifies itself in terms of might -- least of all a bunch of neo-nazis running hooded through the night which may be why He's so conspicuously out of sight of the gospel of bondage... You read the bible in your special ways, you're fond of quoting certain things it says -- mouth full of righteousness and wrath from above but when do we hear about forgiveness and love? Sometimes you can hear the Spirit whispering to you, but if God stays silent, what else can you do except listen to the silence? If you ever did you'd surely see that God won't be reduced to an ideology such as the gospel of bondage... (Toronto, February 22, 1987) @SONG: Don't Feel Your Touch (4:48) In front of a newborn moon pushing up its glistening dome. i kiss these departing companions -- take the next step alone. I just said goodnight to the closest thing i have to home oh -- and the night grows sharp and hollow as a junky's craving vein and i don't feel your touch, again. To be held in the heart of a friend is to be a king but the magic of a lover's touch is what makes my spirit sing when you're caught up in this longing all the beauties of the Earth don't mean a thing. oh -- and the night grows clear and empty as a lake of acid rain and i don't feel your touch, again. The last light of day crept away like a drunkard after gin. A hint of chanted prayer now whispers from the fresh night wind to this shattered heart and soul held together by habit and skin and to this half-gnawed bone of apprehension buried in my brain as i don't feel your touch, again. (Toronto, June 1987) @SONG: Tibetan Side Of Town (7:00) Through rutted winding streets of Kathmandu dodging crowded humans cows dogs rickshaws -- storefronts constellated pools of bluewhite bright against darkening walls. The butterfly sparkle in my lasered eye still seems to hold that last shot of red sun through haze over jumbled roofs. Everything moves like slow fluid in this atmosphere thick as dreams with sewage, incense, dust and fever and the smoke of brick kilns and cremations -- Tom Kelly's bike rumbles down -- we're going drinking on the Tibetan side of town. Beggar with withered legs sits sideways on his skateboard, grinning. There's a joke going on somewhere but we'll never know. Those laughing kids with hungry eyes must be in on it too, with their clinging memories of a culture crushed by Chinese greed. Pretty young mother by the temple gate covers her baby's face against diesel fumes. That look of concern -- you can see it still -- not yet masked by the hard lines of a woman's struggle to survive. Hard bargains going down when you're living on the Tibetan side of town. Big red Enfield Bullet lurches to a halt in the dust. Last blast of engine leaves a ringing in the ears that fades into the rustle of bare feet and slapping sandals and the baritone moan of long bronze trumpets muffled by monastery walls. Prayer flags crack like whips in the breeze sending to the world -- tonight the message blows east. Dark door opens to warm yellow room and there are these steaming jugs of hot millet beer and i'm sucked into the scene like this liquor up this bamboo straw Sweet tungba sliding down -- drinking on the Tibetan side of town. (Toronto, March 1987) @SONG: Understanding Nothing (4:25) high above valley above deep shade coloured with the calls of cuckoos, the ring of coppersmith's hammer... high in the hiss of the wind, wind filled with spirits and bright with the jangle of horse bells... after a crisp night crammed with stars it's morning. Over the scratched-up soil, scorched-earth wasted, long shadows lead women bearing water. I watch the sway of skirts, think of moist spice forests -- too many pictures swirling vertigo momentum of civilization threw me too far over this time-simple landscape and i hang here in this mountain light a balloon blown full of darkness -- got to let this ballast go got to float upward till i burst weavers' fingers flying on the loom patterns shift too fast to be discerned all these years of thinking ended up like this in front of all this beauty understanding nothing. rhododendrons in bloom, sharp against spring snow remind me of another time in japanese temple -- there was a single orange blossom at the wrong time of year -- seemed like a sign -- when i looked again it was gone. weavers' fingers flying on the loom patterns shift too fast to be discerned all these years of thinking ended up like this in front of all this beauty understanding nothing. (Toronto, October 26, 1987.) @SONG: Where the Death Squad Lives (4:23) Goons in blackface creeping in the road -- farm family waiting for the night to explode -- working the land in an age of terror you come to see the moon as the bad news bearer down where the death squad lives. They cut down people like they cut down trees -- chop off its head so it will stay on its knees -- the forest shrinks but the earth remains slash and burn and it grows again down where the death squad lives. I've got friends trying to batter the system down fighting the past till the future comes round. it'll never be a perfect world till God declares it that way but that don't mean there's nothing we can do or say down where the death squad lives. Like some kind of never-ending Easter passion, from every agony a hero's fashioned. around every evil there gathers love -- bombs aren't the only things that fall from above down where the dead squad lives down where the dead squad lives Sometimes i feel like there's a padlock on my soul. if you opened up my heart you'd find a big black hole but when the feeling comes through, it comes through strong -- if you think there's no difference between right and wrong just go down where the death squad lives. This world can be better than it is today. You can say i'm a dreamer but that's okay. without the could-be and the might-have-been all you've got left is your fragile skin and that ain't worth much down where the death squad lives. (Toronto, January 28, 1986) @SONG: Radium Rain (9:22) They're hosing down trucks at the border under a rainbow sign -- the raindrops falling on my head burn into my mind. on a hillside in the distance there's a patch of green sunshine ain't it a shame ain't it a shame about the radium rain. Everyday in the paper you can watch the numbers rise, no such event can over take us here, we're much too wise in the meantime don't eat anything that grows and don't breathe when the cars go by ain't it a shame ain't it a shame about the radium rain Big motorcycle rumbles out of the rain like some creation of mist. there's a man on a roof with a blindfold on and a hand grenade in his fist. i walk stiff, with teeth clenched tight, filled with nostalgia for a clean wind's kiss. ain't it a shame ain't it a shame about the radium rain. A flock of birds writes something on the sky in a language i can't understand. God's graffiti -- but it don't say why so much evil seems to land on man when everyone i meet just wants to live and love, and get along as best they can. ain't it a shame ain't it a shame about the radium rain. (Cologne, May 8, 1986.) @SONG: Pangs Of Love (5:19) Listen to the rain on this mountain town Listen to the night bird's lonesome cry listen to the scratch of pen on paper That's the sound of sleep denied. Hear the sleepers toss and turn Dreaming whatever they're dreaming of The wind that's clearing the heat from the air Can't clear my heart of these pangs of love. Pangs of love That's the price you pay When you give your love But don't give all the way Pangs of love Won't let me go -- I came so far around the world To hear the night say I told you so. (Pakhara, April 9, 1987) @SONG: The Gift (6:04) These shoes have walked some strange streets stranger still to come -- sometimes the prayers of strangers are all that keeps them from trying to stay static, something even death can't do everything is motion -- to the motion be true In this cold commodity culture where you lay your money down it's hard to even notice that all this earth is hallowed ground -- harder still to feel it, basic as a breath -- love is stronger than darkness love is stronger than death The gift keeps moving -- never know where it's going to land. You must stand back and let it keep on changing hands Hackles rise in anger, heat waves rise in sex. The gift moves on regardless tying this world to the next. May you never tire of waiting, never feel that life is cheap. May your life be filled with light except for when you're trying to sleep. The gift keeps moving -- never know where it's going to land you must stand back and let it keep on changing hands. (Toronto, February 9, 1988) @SONG: Anything Can Happen (4:30) You could have gone off the Bloor St. viaduct i could have been run down in the street you could have got botulism anytime i could have gone overboard into the sea Anything can happen to put out the light, is it any wonder i don't want to say goodnight? I could have been hit by a falling pane of glass you could have had shark teeth write "finit" we could have been nailed by some vigilante type in a case of mistaken identity -- obviously Anything can happen to put out the light is it any wonder i don't want to say goodnight? We could have been lynched and tarred and feathered -- been on a plane that crashed in flames -- could have done the neutron melt together but here we are just the same! You could have been daggered in the dead of night You could have been gassed inside your car. I could have been walking in the open fields and been drilled through the head by a shooting star Anything can happen to put out the light is it any wonder i don't want to say goodnight? (Toronto, December 29, 1980.)