Postcard from the Alvarado Trestle

Late-Night Beatnik Blues, Jazz Noir, blues-jazz

[Verse 2]
Now, Blind Willie’s leaning against the brick wall
With a tin cup of pencils that nobody bought
He can tell by the smell of the diesel and rain
That the 4:15 local is breaking its chain
And the girls from the laundry are shaking their aprons
Out over the railing of the fire escape stairs
While the butcher is throwing the bones to the hounds
And the clock on the steeple just counts down the rounds.

[Chorus]
And the asphalt is sweating, the humidity’s high
You’re a short-legged dog in a long-legged sky
With a pocket of lint and a damp box of matches
And a coat that is mostly just lining and patches
Yeah, the piano’s been drinking, it’s slouching its shoulders
And the night’s getting older... and older... and older.

[Verse 3]
There’s a suitcase of postcards from New Orleans town
That you bought for a dollar when the pawnshop went down
Every one of ‘em says "having wonderful time"
But the ink has been ruined by the river-bank slime
And you’re writing a line to a girl named Irene
On the back of a wrapper from a vending machine
But you forgot her address and you lost the lead pencil
So you leave it behind by the Alvarado trestle.

[Bridge]
[The rhythm breaks down into a heavy, off-kilter stomp; a muted trombone growls low]
Oh, the carnival’s gone but the tent-pegs are stuck
In the mud by the tracks where you ran out of luck
And the calliope’s choked on a mouthful of dust
And the ferris wheel’s singing a hymn to the rust
You’re trading a watch for a cracked pair of shoes
With a handful of gravel and nothing to lose...

[Verse 4]
[Tempo drops back to just the heavy, woody thrum of the bass and a lone piano note]
So roll up your sleeves, put the cork in the flask
There ain't nobody left for the shadows to ask
The milk-trucks are starting to rattle the grates
As the sun takes a bite of the porcelain plates
And you crawl through the window of a transient room
Just to sleep through the heat of the afternoon.

[Outro]
Yeah, sleep through the heat...
With the shade pulled down tight.
And a glass full of rain.
Another Saturday night on the cooling board.
[A sharp, percussive slap on the body of the double bass, followed by the metallic click of a tape machine turning off]

2925/7500

[Verse 1] The moon’s just a nickel that somebody dropped In a bucket of lye where the janitor mopped And the screen door is slapping a rhythm so slow To the ghost of a polka from the radio You got grease on your knuckles and soot in your hair From a '58 Buick that’s going nowhere And the grease-pencil sign on the bakery glass Says the world is a short-order headache to pass. [Verse 2] Now, Blind Willie’s leaning against the brick wall With a tin cup of pencils that nobody bought He can tell by the smell of the diesel and rain That the 4:15 local is breaking its chain And the girls from the laundry are shaking their aprons Out over the railing of the fire escape stairs While the butcher is throwing the bones to the hounds And the clock on the steeple just counts down the rounds. [Chorus] And the asphalt is sweating, the humidity’s high You’re a short-legged dog in a long-legged sky With a pocket of lint and a damp box of matches And a coat that is mostly just lining and patches Yeah, the piano’s been drinking, it’s slouching its shoulders And the night’s getting older... and older... and older. [Verse 3] There’s a suitcase of postcards from New Orleans town That you bought for a dollar when the pawnshop went down Every one of ‘em says "having wonderful time" But the ink has been ruined by the river-bank slime And you’re writing a line to a girl named Irene On the back of a wrapper from a vending machine But you forgot her address and you lost the lead pencil So you leave it behind by the Alvarado trestle. [Bridge] [The rhythm breaks down into a heavy, off-kilter stomp; a muted trombone growls low] Oh, the carnival’s gone but the tent-pegs are stuck In the mud by the tracks where you ran out of luck And the calliope’s choked on a mouthful of dust And the ferris wheel’s singing a hymn to the rust You’re trading a watch for a cracked pair of shoes With a handful of gravel and nothing to lose... [Verse 4] [Tempo drops back to just the heavy, woody thrum of the bass and a lone piano note] So roll up your sleeves, put the cork in the flask There ain't nobody left for the shadows to ask The milk-trucks are starting to rattle the grates As the sun takes a bite of the porcelain plates And you crawl through the window of a transient room Just to sleep through the heat of the afternoon. [Chorus] And the asphalt is sweating, the humidity’s high You’re a short-legged dog in a long-legged sky With a pocket of lint and a damp box of matches And a coat that is mostly just lining and patches Yeah, the piano’s been drinking, it’s slouching its shoulders And the night’s getting older... and older... and older. [Outro] Yeah, sleep through the heat... With the shade pulled down tight. And a glass full of rain. Another Saturday night on the cooling board. [A sharp, percussive slap on the body of the double bass, followed by the metallic click of a tape machine turning off]

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