Small Change Romance (And a Glass Full of Rain)

DJ Fiddles B

TW13

DJ Fiddles B

blues, jazz noir, beatnik folk

[Piano intro: slow, chromatic, dragging behind a lazy upright bass and a brush on a snare]

(Verse 1)
The neon's got a stutter on the corner of Grand
And the coffee tastes like copper in a second-hand can
The waitress is a dancer with a hitch in her hip
Wiping grease off the counter for a twenty-cent tip
And the jukebox is bleeding some old standard tune
About a girl named Lorraine and a paper-mâché moon
While the rain beats the pavement like a drum with no skin
And the night’s just a room that you can't quite get in.

(Chorus)
And it’s a small change night under a blue valentine
When the whiskey won't talk and the clock won't align
Yeah, you're hitching a ride on the ghost of a train
Just a quarter-inch drop from the edge of the drain
And the piano’s been drinking, or maybe it’s me
Drowning out the shadows in a minor key.

(Verse 2)
Now, Mickey’s in the back room with a deck full of grease
Trying to buy a little time from the local police
He’s got a Muriel cigar hanging out of his face
And a cold cup of Maxwell he forgot to erase
And the winos are sleeping in the vestibule shade
Like a row of broken promises the city just made
With their pockets full of lint and their eyes full of chalk
Listening to the gossip of the sidewalk talk.

(Verse 3)
There’s an old '55 sinking into the rust
By the Alvarado overpass, coughing up dust
And a girl from St. Paul is writing a card
Saying the weather’s getting better and the winter ain't hard
But the ink is all smeared by the grease on her thumb
And she’s humming a hymn to a blind-alley bum
And you know that she's lying, but you buy it anyway
'Cause there ain't enough truth to get you through to the day.

(Bridge)
[The tempo swings, a muted trumpet snarls, picking up a smoky jazz-beat shuffle]
Oh, the gin-mill philosophers are holding their court
With a list of complaints that is three pages short
And the ice in the glass makes a skeleton sound
As the merry-go-round goes around and around
And you're trading your shoes for a gallon of gas
Watching the Saturday night heatwave pass...

(Verse 4)
[Tempo slows back to a heavy, dragging solo piano dirge]
So pull down your fedora, put your collar right up
Leave the dregs of the evening in the bottom of the cup
The streetlights are blinking like a tired old eye
As the 2 A.M. local goes rumbling by
And you crawl into the vinyl of a high-backed booth
Just looking for a lie that sounds a little like the truth.

(Outro)
Just a little like the truth...
With a new coat of paint.
And a glass full of rain.
Yeah, warm beer and cold women.

[Piano hits a final, low, dissonant cluster chord, trailing off into the hiss of a passing bus]

3593/7500

[Piano intro: slow, chromatic, dragging behind a lazy upright bass and a brush on a snare] (Verse 1) The neon's got a stutter on the corner of Grand And the coffee tastes like copper in a second-hand can The waitress is a dancer with a hitch in her hip Wiping grease off the counter for a twenty-cent tip And the jukebox is bleeding some old standard tune About a girl named Lorraine and a paper-mâché moon While the rain beats the pavement like a drum with no skin And the night’s just a room that you can't quite get in. (Chorus) And it’s a small change night under a blue valentine When the whiskey won't talk and the clock won't align Yeah, you're hitching a ride on the ghost of a train Just a quarter-inch drop from the edge of the drain And the piano’s been drinking, or maybe it’s me Drowning out the shadows in a minor key. (Verse 2) Now, Mickey’s in the back room with a deck full of grease Trying to buy a little time from the local police He’s got a Muriel cigar hanging out of his face And a cold cup of Maxwell he forgot to erase And the winos are sleeping in the vestibule shade Like a row of broken promises the city just made With their pockets full of lint and their eyes full of chalk Listening to the gossip of the sidewalk talk. (Chorus) And it’s a small change night under a blue valentine When the whiskey won't talk and the clock won't align Yeah, you're hitching a ride on the ghost of a train Just a quarter-inch drop from the edge of the drain And the piano’s been drinking, or maybe it’s me Drowning out the shadows in a minor key. (Verse 3) There’s an old '55 sinking into the rust By the Alvarado overpass, coughing up dust And a girl from St. Paul is writing a card Saying the weather’s getting better and the winter ain't hard But the ink is all smeared by the grease on her thumb And she’s humming a hymn to a blind-alley bum And you know that she's lying, but you buy it anyway 'Cause there ain't enough truth to get you through to the day. (Chorus) And it’s a small change night under a blue valentine When the whiskey won't talk and the clock won't align Yeah, you're hitching a ride on the ghost of a train Just a quarter-inch drop from the edge of the drain And the piano’s been drinking, or maybe it’s me Drowning out the shadows in a minor key. (Bridge) [The tempo swings, a muted trumpet snarls, picking up a smoky jazz-beat shuffle] Oh, the gin-mill philosophers are holding their court With a list of complaints that is three pages short And the ice in the glass makes a skeleton sound As the merry-go-round goes around and around And you're trading your shoes for a gallon of gas Watching the Saturday night heatwave pass... (Verse 4) [Tempo slows back to a heavy, dragging solo piano dirge] So pull down your fedora, put your collar right up Leave the dregs of the evening in the bottom of the cup The streetlights are blinking like a tired old eye As the 2 A.M. local goes rumbling by And you crawl into the vinyl of a high-backed booth Just looking for a lie that sounds a little like the truth. (Chorus) And it’s a small change night under a blue valentine When the whiskey won't talk and the clock won't align Yeah, you're hitching a ride on the ghost of a train Just a quarter-inch drop from the edge of the drain And the piano’s been drinking, or maybe it’s me Drowning out the shadows in a minor key. (Outro) Just a little like the truth... With a new coat of paint. And a glass full of rain. Yeah, warm beer and cold women. [Piano hits a final, low, dissonant cluster chord, trailing off into the hiss of a passing bus]

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