What's the hard line darling? What's all the news I'm hearing? Is it so that you've been near him since I've gone? Since I've gone away, you know I left for you. I would feel much better If I knew you got this letter. 'Cause the road that lays between us Is one-week long. And I don't have the bread to come and see you now. Say you never said you love him Say your thoughts are miles above him. Say you never said you love him And say it again. Say it a million times And say it once for me. 'Cause I feel all right. I feel all right. Joe Pernice Bony Gap Music (BMI), Admin. by BUG/BMG
Feeling a bit nostalgic today. The passing of Olivia Newton-John got me thinking about a whole bunch of things. I landed on a time in my life when listening to the right song could hit me so hard I’d need to have a seat and breathe into a bag. (Olivia Newton-John sang a few of those.) My head’s a bit fuzzy, so forgive me for bouncing around.
For me, the song has always transcended genre. If a song got me, it got me. I never bought into the idea of guilty pleasures when it comes to music, which is unusual because I was a Catholic long enough for guilt to take root. Please Mister Please, Boys Don’t Cry, Letter Never Sent, Safe European Home, Night And Day, That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore, Day And Night, Moon River, The Prettiest Girl…they’re all the same to me.
In the summer of 1984 I was 17 years old. I had been playing bass guitar for a year or so, and started strumming my brother’s acoustic earlier that year. I bought Reckoning by R.E.M. the minute it came out, and started learning every song on guitar. I credit Peter Buck with teaching me the second position open G sharp minor chord with high and low E strings ringing. (Once you learn it, you’ll hearths form in a bunch of tunes. I came to realize I respond favourably to the form, as I love many tunes that use it.)
Anyway, songs were like love to me back then: Joyful and potentially devastating. I wanted to write one.
I vividly recall writing Letter to Bread. I was sitting in the small bedroom I shared with my brother. He was at his summer job, working at a factory/plant that made concrete building blocks. He moved blocks all day. He was in fantastic shape. He had arms like Popeye. I weighed about 19 pounds and derived a significant portion of my nutrition from peanut butter and coffee. For some reason I had stayed home that day from my miserable summer job making $3.35 an hour packing orders of school supplies in a warehouse. The company had a slogan Earning for Learning, which was their way of making it seem like the prison wages they paid college-bound kids was a kiss and not a fat lip. I fucking hated that job. Speaking of kiss the radio station in the warehouse blasted KISS108 on the sound system all day. To this day I can sing all of Never Surrender, Freeway of Love and To The Beat of The Rhythm of The Night. None of those songs hit me in the good way.
In retrospect, I almost certainly called in sick that day. It was sweltering hot. Our house had the real luxury of two window unit AC’s, but since my bedroom door was shut, I was pouring sweat. I started messing with some R.E.M. chords, and this song—words and all— kind of fell out of me. I think it’s the first real song I ever wrote. And it is certainly the first song of mine that had a middle eight. (The I feel all right part.) Not a song that is going to change anyone’s life in any big way, but it’s not bad for a 17 year old kid whose horizons went no further than the Mass Bay Transit Authority (MBTA).
The Scud Mountain Boys would go on to record this song in Bruce K. Tull’s kitchen in September of 1994. A number of songs from that day of recording would make up the bulk of our 1995 record Dance The Night Away.
The version here was tracked to my phone using my Shure MV88 mic. I played my son’s small bodied Art & Lutherie acoustic guitar. I did a bit of EQ in Logic, then converted the “mix” to mp3 as is required by Substack.
I’ve made this post free to all. If you’d like to receive future posts, you may subscribe for $5 USD per month. (Now go back and read the part about that shitty warehouse getting away with paying students $3.35 per hour.)
As always, thanks for listening and tuning in. Take care of yourselves. Until next time. —JP
A Letter to Bread