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Lawrence Lanahan

by Lawrence Lanahan

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1.
The Big Move 03:57
I’m moving to Paris, France, and there’s nothing you can do To keep me living here, it’s time for something new. I’m moving to Paris, France, and there’s nothing you can do. Cela est que j’ai dit. Que dites-vous? And I loved you, goodbye, goodbye. I’m moving to New York City, and there’s nothing you can do To keep my dream from coming true I’m moving to New York City, and there’s nothing you can do Cause the big city’s for me, and this small town is for you. And I loved you, goodbye, goodbye. I’m gonna skip this town, and there’s nothing you can do To keep me in this house living with you. I’m gonna skip this town, and I mean it, too. Cause there’s nothing left for me in this house or with you. And I loved you, goodbye, goodbye. I’m gonna move crosstown, and I don’t wanna see you Catching a crosstown bus just to see what’s new. I’m gonna move crosstown, that’s what I’m gonna do And I’ll be too busy there to mess around with you. And I loved you, goodbye, goodbye. I can’t believe you’re moving in with him so soon. Won’t you stay here, babe? There’s plenty of room. I can’t believe you’re moving in with him so soon. Won’t you stay here, babe? There’s plenty of room. And I… And I… And I… And I…
2.
Great Hall 04:28
When I worked on the farm, I used to start up a tractor, head out, and mow the wide fields. I used to shovel, sweep, and dig. On the farm was a great hall. A hundred fifty years old, it had a little carpeted stage. Every week I’d clean it up. I would take a giant broom And sweep all the dust out of that old wooden room. It would take me half the day. One day I looked up And saw a butterfly flying across the hall. It was flying right towards me. In the middle of its flight, It stopped flapping its wings and fell to the ground suddenly, Dying right at my feet. You know, I should have learned Something from the butterfly that died in an ordinary flight. You know, I should have learned That death is quick, And life is slow, slow, slow. Life is slow, slow slow. I should have learned that life is slow.
3.
When I roll over, I see one green pillow And a blue tapestry on the wall But when I throw my leg across the bed There’s no one to cushion its fall My guitar, my clock, my dresser and bed There’s nothing to look at in this dingy white room But if I could have her with me one night I’d look at her all the night through Chorus: And I wish I lived in an old train station I’d think of my baby each time one rolled by And if I knew one was going her way I’d be gone in the blink of an eye So I’ll read an old book, then I’ll strum my guitar And I’ll wait by the phone for that long distance call But when she hangs up, I’m left feeling lonesome Lonesome like a leaf in the fall Chorus
4.
5.
6.
Boards 05:16
I cut the boards down at the public works building. I run the saw through the plywood till it fits in the door Or in the window. I’m sure you’ve seen my craftsmanship If you’ve ever been down to Baltimore. You’ve seen them covered up by concert posters, Or maybe a spray-painted “R.I.P.” With broken windows staring down from above them. You hurry by, pretending not to see. This board will go up on the Robinson’s house. They finally made it out to Owings Mills. This one’s for Shanda’s house, she’s back on Section 8. Her mortgage was a scam, now she can’t pay her bills. Here’s a whole pile of them, they’ll cover up a whole block Where some speculator bought some property. He’s too busy counting all his filthy cash To send a little to the gas company. I curse each board I make, I curse the saw, I curse my boss. Each board’s a curse upon the neighborhood it casts its blighted gaze across. I curse my tiny house, And the last thing I see before I sleep. A picture of my wife and a bottle of old whiskey. My job’s secure because each board I make Tempts the neighbors to leave their houses behind and skip this town, And old Darrell Brooks just brought me a bonanza when he Burned Angela Dawson and her children down. Yeah, he kicked their door in and poured that gasoline. He lit a match, I’m sure it took no time. The father jumped out the second story window Just to land in pain and hear his wife and children die. Bridge: They say that Angela would call the cops on Darrell For selling drugs in front of her front door. He’d had enough so he burned her first floor down. Probably too thick to think he’d burn anymore. I curse each board I make, I curse the saw, I curse my boss. Each board’s a curse upon the neighborhood it casts its blighted gaze across. I curse my tiny house, And the last thing I see before I sleep. A picture of my wife and a bottle of old whiskey. My buddy Bill, he nails the boards up, and he nails them up again Each time the junkies peel them off to get inside So they can sit together in the dark among the rats and piss Again to stick that needle through their hides. You know they robbed my son over at Collington and Orleans? He volunteers at Johns Hopkins in the children’s ward. But that don’t matter much to them as long as he’s got money. It’s only junk that they are living for. I don’t know why he stays, he’s got the means to leave here. I don’t want to worry about my child now that he is grown. He says, “Dad, you used to say, ‘Son, you must grow where you’ve been planted.’” Why did I plant him at home? I curse each board I make, I curse the saw, I curse my boss. Each board’s a curse upon the neighborhood it casts its blighted gaze across. I curse my tiny house, And the last thing I see before I sleep. A picture of my wife and a bottle of old whiskey.

about

Lawrence Lanahan's first release, from 2004: an acoustic EP of “intricately picked guitar work and melodious, thoughtful songs,” “melodic and lyrical innovation,” and “wit, emotion, [and] bizarre narration.”

credits

released May 20, 2004

Engineered and mixed by Chris Bentley, mastered by Daniel Farris.

Musicians on Train Station:
Kevin Corbin: banjo
Dave Frieman: double bass
B.J. Lazarus: mandolin
Ed Hough: vocals and resophonic guitar
Cris Jacobs: vocals

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about

Lawrence Lanahan Baltimore, Maryland

Lawrence Lanahan is a songwriter in Baltimore, MD.

He also plays with Disappearing Ink.

A freelance journalist, Lanahan is the author of The Lines Between Us: Two Families and a Quest to Cross Baltimore's Racial Divide (2019, The New Press).
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