Round Eye Blues, Marah: Songs I lIke, Part XXII

Posted: August 12th, 2010 | Filed under: Features, Music | No Comments »

For forty seconds you get the set up. What’s the deal? This sounds like something from the 60s. That’s right, the drum intro to The Ronettes “Be My Baby.” Well, sort of. Yet, the castanets give it away. Do they dare swim in these deep waters, try a take on such a seminal song?

You can’t help but wonder as the intro coninues. Are these white kids from Philly really going to tackle Phil Spector? Dare they emulate the greatest voice in rock & roll, Veronica Bennett?

Or will they extrapolate the song into something unrecognizable, something white? Like Vanilla Fudge turning “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” into garage band psychedelia.

Then, in a turn as exhilarating as it is unexpected, David Bielanko’s raspy, weary voice reaches out from the jungles of Nam. The memory so strong, even though he’s actually back stateside, the images are strong and true and resonant. You can feel the sweat and grit and fear.

(Note: I couldn’t find the album version anywhere on the www. It’s purer than any of the live versions. So here it is. No visuals. You’ll probably be directed to a page with just a player. After you listen, hit the return button on your browser to come back. There’s a raucous live take on the song at the end of this article.)

Round Eye Blues

Last night I closed my eyes/ 
And watched the tracers fly/ 
Through the jungle trees
/ Like fireflies on a windy night/ 
Pulled up and onward by the breeze
/ I can still hear the far off tin-canny sounds
/ Of their machine guns come unwound
/ And I was shakin’ like Little Richard/ 
And I was sweatin’ like ol’ James Brown

/

Viet Nam and soul music. It worked for Coppola. It works even better for the Bielanko brothers, who are the magnificent bar band Marah.

Over by my window sill
/ The moon was still/ 
On my cigarettes and wine/ 
Sometimes that’s where I pray to Jesus
/ Sometimes there’s where I pray to die/ But I could still sense the circling danger
/ Of those invisible bastards of a piss-hot day/ 
I was shakin’ with ol’ Proud Mary/ 
I was sittin’ on the dock of the bay/

The rhythm continues. Yes, it’s Phil Spector, but it’s hard to figure out the connection?

Take the hits boys take the hits/ Don’t smoke your bible and don’t lose your wits/ 
Because the sky is filled with shrapnel
/ And your eyes are filled with tears

/ Hold your breath boys hold your breath
/ Finger your trigger and welcome death/ 
Because the chopper’s filled with your gut-shot friends/ 
Your hearts are filled with fear/

There’s that coda again during a short instrumental break. No flourishes. No castanets this time, just he insistence that adds gravity to this cautionary tale that’s wrapped around an icon of a song.

Fables tell of men who fell
/ With swords dangling from their chest
/ The old guys down at the taproom swear
/ The Japs could kill you best
/ But late at night I could still hear the cries/ 
Of three black guys I seen take it in the face/ 
I think about them sweet Motown girls they left behind
/ And the assholes that took their place

/

Then the chorus again, the lament of lost brothers, the helicopter imagery that is such a part of Viet Nam memories. For those who were there and those who weren’t.

The chorus again.

Your hearts are filled with fear.

Then a lonely horn, forlorn. And, yes, the signature castanets.

So won’t you please/ Be my little baby/ Be my baby now . . .



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