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| SONG LISTING |
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| 01. Starpainters |
| 02. Vancouver Divorce |
| 03. SF Song |
| 04. Trick Rider |
| 05. Canada Geese |
| 06. Chancello |
| 07. The Never-Ending Present |
| 08. Nothing But Heartache In Your Social Life |
| 09. Blackflies |
| 10. Lofty Pines |
| 11. Boy Bruised By Butterfly Chase |
| 12. Mystery |
| 13. Elaborate |
| 14. Yer Possessed |
| 15. Every Irrelevance |
| 16. Insomniacs Of The World, Good Night |
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| Coke Machine Glow - Book |
| Album Credits |
| Book Credits |
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 Purchase Coke Machine Glow - CD |
| Purchase Coke Machine Glow - Book |
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| COKE MACHINE GLOW - BOOK BIO |
 Over the last decade, there have been few voices with such clarity and resonance that they cut through the buzz of our times, evoke winter and truth and the land, and are uncynical, beautiful and sad in the face of decaying hope and confusion's whipping axis. One of those voices belongs to Gordon Downie. We've heard it out of crackling summer radios, speaker towers planted on festival prairie fields, basement party album sleeves dusted with dope and tobacco, highschool photocopies passed around the room by English teachers whose English teachers once showed them the words to Joni Mitchell songs, and yellow tv screens parked in taverns blinking the wild arms and hiccuping jaw of a dude in a Bruins sweater singing about dead ships and fuzzy dreams. It's a voice that is his; ours. Words hang off it like shaggy willows suddenly alive in a night's storm of cheering and drums, and while something about the hornet's sting and the rocky socket and the phantom power stick to us like sap on a bootheel, it's really the poetry that sinks into the soft earth of our thoughts and is the grit in our nation's loam.
I asked Gord why he wrote this book and his answer was, "When Al Purdy died, among the stuff in the newspapers was his answer to this same question: 'I write like a spider spins webs and much for the same reason, to support my existence.' I really liked that." Like Al, Gord is a word man. When he was a kid, he was given Farley Mowat's "Never Cry Wolf" and "while there were no pictures, I remember that he made the wolf den seem so cozy and that the tundra became this teeming place." From there, he stepped to Bruno Schulz, Sherwood Anderson, Raymond Carver. In the introduction to "All Of Us" - The Collected Poems of Raymond Carver, poet Tess Gallagher, wrote; "Ray made the ecstatic seem ordinary, within the reach of anyone. he also knew something essential, which is too often sacrificed for lesser concerns, that poetry isn't simply reticence served up for what we meant to say. It's a place to be ample and grateful, to make room for those events and people closest to our hearts..." The thought struck Gord to the extent that he pencilled it on a 3X5 card, which he carries around in his back pocket. So really, it's from his ass that the motivation comes. In concert, words fountain from his point on the stage into pools of prose and verse, only parts of which are sluiced here. Gord says that the difference between rock and roll and poetry is that "one dances, the other wants to,"but in performance, and in this book, those words move across rhythms as if they were players themselves, pushing and pulling the beat, racing and slowing it.
In the beginning of the book, "Clouds full of dimes threaten the dream" while those "whispering transmissions through wet woollen mittens" gaze at a "sky of spilled paintwater." The poems, at first, float in a place of dreams and architects and children wearing plastic vampire teeth skidding down hills towards the opening and closing of the light. The second section, "A Drop of Audience", takes the reader through the movements and anatomy of rock and roll life, stopping at the Songwriter's Cabal, Michigan Roadside's, Richard Manuel, and Mt. Stage. Gord's voice is evocative of Lowell George, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Nicolas Cage's character in "Wild At Heart." The words of these poems reflect a place where writers "write by lightning" in hotel rooms where "the mouthpiece of my phone reeks of rambling Aqua Velva business." The tone is stark, full of stale breath and the dragging of time. The jet "climbs into life after death towards that place where all the longing goes" and there are clouds, and more clouds. Below, the land is "a crazy quilt of spearmint" upon which the singer travels in a "van full of balloons" until "the water's all gone and you've wrung your notebook dry/leave the stage behind the audience's back." Having spent some days in a place like this, I can tell you: Gord's mirror shows true.
Dave Bidini
March 2001
Toronto
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| ALBUM CREDITS |
Produced by GD, Josh Finlayson, and Steven Drake
Recorded and mixed by Steven Drake at The Gas Station, Toronto, May 2 & 12, 2000
Tracks 1 , 2, 3 ,4, 5, 8, 11, 12, 13 mixed at The Gas Station, May 12th.
Tracks 6, 7, 9, 10, 14, 15, 16 mixed at Greenhouse Studios, Vancouver.
Mastered by Bob Ludwig at Gateway Mastering, Portland, Maine.
All Songs by GD © 2000 Wiener Art (SOCAN) except tracks, 1 and 16 GD © 2000 Wiener Art (SOCAN) / Morningstar Dam Records (SOCAN), tracks 8 and 12 GD © 2000 Wiener Art (SOCAN) / Egoyan Ego Film Arts (SOCAN), track 11 Louie Perez © 2000 Hot Churro Music (BMI) administered by Bug/GD Wiener Art (SOCAN).
This record was brought to you by the letters: W, C and L.
Art Direction & Design Megan Oldfield for Coolaide Design.
Photography Michael Adamson.
Cover concept Carmen Dunjko.
I would like to acknowledge the following people for their help before, during, and after the time of this recording; Laura Usher; Josh Finlayson; David Koster; Ken Friesen; Andrew McLachlan; Aaron Holmberg; Mark Vreeken; Robert Farrell; Shelley Stertz; Justin Deneau; Bruce Levens;
Roger Levens; Gordini at Greenhouse; Michael Adamson; Megan Oldfield; Bruce McCulloch; Donna Ryan; Rachel Pequinot, Gail Ludwig; Jake Gold; Daniel Buckman; Wendy Coombe; The Skydiggers; Jeff Maize; Chris Brown; Kate Fenner; John Fay; Rob Baker; Gord Sinclair; Wayne
Fraser; Allan Gregg; Kim Bingham; Ruth Schneider and family; Don Kerr; Kevin Hearn; Jose Contreras; Julie Doiron; Atom Egoyan; Paul Langlois; Travis Good; Jaro Czerwinec; Andy Maize; Andrea Naan; Adrien Langlois, The Gluttonous Percussionist; Stevie D; Geezer and The Chippewa Cowboy; Nancy Usher; my sisters; my brothers; and my mother and my father.
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| BOOK CREDITS |
Cover and book design: Carmen Dunjko
Photographs: Michael Adamson;
Copyright © 2001 Michael Adamson
Vintage Canada Edition, 2001
Copyright © 2001 by Wiener Art
I would like to gratefully acknowledge the following people for their help before, during and after the writing of this book:
Laura Usher, Allan Gregg, Susan Roxborough, Jake Gold, Louise Dennys, Shelley Stertz, Paul t. brooks, Michael Adamson, Megan Oldfield, Kate Fenner, Carmen Dunjko, Bea Lorimer, Paul Langlois, Gord Sinclair, Rob Baker, John Fay and my dear mother.
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COKE MACHINE GLOW
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| Starpainters |
The myth is neither here nor there, from the air.
Just blue lake stains and purified, parcelled squares:
a crazy quilt of spearmint, of mustard and honey tones;
a scuffed-up kitchen floor
of tiles on top of bones with a big trap door.
Towns down diagonal lines disappear and drop out of sight into the night beyond the national night,
and underneath the grit and glare into unfettered nothingness and thin air,
as herds of clouds lazily graze on thermal sighs of delight,
The Starpainters are taking over now,
their scaffolding is in its place.
your anaesthesiologist tonight is washing up and on her way. |
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| Vancouver Divorce |
What the hell is this?
You said, "It's art, just fuckin' mirror it."
Where did we go wrong?
If not here, where do we belong?
In a shot of sun off an airplane far above her?
In the glint of the foot-burnished manhole cover?
In a light, a sign of one kind or another?
In the gleaming eye of a fighter or a lover?
Sitting here at the Horton's,
so you know this is important.
If not here, then where?
If not now then when?
When a feather's an immovable force?
When the stampede's an obstacle course?
When Ancient Train has hit Ol' Transient Horse?
When we're a Vancouver divorce?
Now that we've hammered the last spike
and we've punched the railroad through,
thought there'd be more to say
thought there'd be more to do.
I love your paintings-don't take your colors away.
I've grown more fearful of them every day.
Swimming up their dark rivers to discover your source,
a source of strange and unrequited remorse.
And I found the end of the world, of course,
but it's not the end of the world, of course.
It's just a Vancouver divorce.
It's just a Vancouver divorce.
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| SF Song |
Think it was the click-click-clicking of the fingernail clippers.
Or was it the sound of laughter outside?
Or the pad-pad-padding of the chambermaid's slippers
But I'm awake. I'm awake.
"I'm awake and quite aware of checkout time."
Out and down past those stickers
On that chambermaid's cart.
Past the suits with wet hair at the breakfast buffet.
Through the lobby where the Worlds Largest Lemonade Stand
Starts off each day by shooting away a gun with a sign that says,
"I'm saving up for a harmonica one day."
And past the girl in the wheelchair who says,
"It's not mine, I'm just sitting in it for someone."
And just then there's a bus with a Marlboro ad on the back that says,
"Bob, I Miss My Lung." expect it says,
"I Miss My Lung Bob."
It's cause I paraphrase so much,
But I think it was "I Miss My Lung Bob."
You know, I think it was;
I think it was
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| Trick Rider |
My wild child, your night light's on,
You're in your mild depths,
The moon is on the lawn.
Just make your friends
While you're still young,
Before you can't see
Through anyone
And if you're trick-riding out in the rain,
Don't expect me to watch
And don't ask me to explain.
I'll be your friend, your last refuge,
When things get weird
And weird breaks huge.
I'll stroke your hair,
I'll dry your cheeks
When failures come
And no one speaks,
But if you're on a horse,
Trick-riding in the mud and rain,
You can't expect me to watch
Or ask me to explain.
But if you're on a horse,
Trick-riding in the mud and rain,
Don't make me watch
Don't ask me to explain
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| Canada Geese |
Us middle-aged men just completing
the finishing touches on a dope deal.
It's agreed we get a small piece
in the middle of a cornfield.
When these Canada geese fly south,
we'll harvest in the dark.
We can talk just to ourselves
or we can talk just to the stars.
Us Canada geese held a meeting
in the middle of a cornfield.
It's agreed; we leave in small vees
and meet up again in the real world.
Like middle-aged men smoke dope
and talk just to their cars,
we can talk just to ourselves
or we can talk just to the stars.
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| Chancellor |
Seconds from pajamas I must
first open all the doors and the windows
and invite the vampire in to be one of us.
Then, in the guise of cool air,
in the softer hours, he's there,
sitting, talking, in the voice of your mother
about leaving one good party for another,
and the night of a thousand missteps
and the loss that made him dogged
or it could have been the doggedness that caused the loss in the first place, I guess.
Crazy daisies and wooden stars,
the threat of oxygen on Mars,
marching armies in the night,
smiling strangers riding by on bikes,
Children smoking, sloganeers on mics,
just a few things most vampires don't like.
Before the dawning's first light I must
first close up all the doors and the windows
and try to trap that cool air in to be one with us.
I'm discovering uses for you I thought I'd never find,
I could've made chancellor without you on my mind.
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| The Never-Ending Present |
This waiting here for a bus is
Almost better than its coming.
Every day it always does
As I daydream or kick some dirt
Or throw a rock or check my watch
Or catch my reflection.
And it barely makes an impression (And it barely makes an impression)
In the never-ending present. (In the never-ending present)
This working from the inside out,
This stepping to the easel,
Is gonna run you into results,
Then there's the materials:
To see beyond your shoes
Reflected in the polish and see some images
Of truth beautifully demolished.
And it barely makes an impression (And it barely makes an impression)
On the never-ending present. (On the never-ending present)
Steel yourself against the cold
Or look for semi-precious shade.
When the bus crests that hill,
Love and hate are just the same.
Watching as the money drops, (Watching as the money drops)
Every day it always does.
Maybe there's a song in here. (Maybe there's a song in here)
No, and in fact, there never was.
Nothing but a little expression (Nothing but a little expression)
From the never ending present. (From the never ending present)
Just me doing my impression (Just me doing my impression)
Of the never-ending present. (Of the never-ending present)
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| Nothing But Heartache In Your Social Life |
When are you thinking of disappearing?
When are you falling off the map?
When the unknown that you're fearing's
In the clearing?
When your world's gone flat?
When you're waiting fro your life
To be depicted
And feeling estrangement from escape?
When you're packaged up.
Beautifully scripted,
Insulated with electrical tape?
When the famous are getting airborne?
When the evacuation's under way
And not for all the pot in Rosedale
Could you possibly get them to stay?
When a blind eye turns to duty?
When I'm standing there holding the door,
Saying things like "After you - wit before beauty"
And "OK, maybe there's room for just one more?"
When are you thinking of disappearing?
When technology fails, forever changes
And hardcore shadows are gone?
When what the average age rearranges
Is forever certain?
Forever wrong?
When new adventures in electronics
Make signals pleasing to the ear?
When tubes cooking up distortion
Mean the end of suffering is near?
When the podium's sprouting weeds,
Rendered ridiculous by the times?
When people have different needs
And time smiles on disciplined minds?
When you're getting king-sized satisfaction
In the turnstiles of the night
From all the shaky pale transactions
And all the heartache in your social life?
When are you thinking of disappearing?
When there's nothing but heartache in your social life?
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| Blackflies |
So your name wasn't in the listing
Or in the catalogue of lists
Or in the error heavily listing.
Oh how could your name be missed?
See the bull moose
Checking out another's rack.
There's no point in this.
There's no point in getting involved
When the outcome cannot miss.
No tracks in the snow, no laminar flow,
Can show you "where to go"
Or "how to extract just where you're at"
And not "become where you're from."
'Cause you're not quite that isolatable.
And all I'm thinking is,
I hope the blackflies don't carry me away.
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| Lofty Pines |
It's too hot to sleep.
Let's gather 'round the fan.
We can't do nothin' bout the heat,
so let's just do what we can
and everything 'll be just fine.
Just dream of the Lofty Pines.
Well, I dreamed of the Lofty Pines-
at least what I thought they were-
standing in the forest after nighttime,
swaying so cool and sure.
Sure had never been so wrong;
sure like the title of the perfect song.
Now for the spectacular part.
Just then, a pack of matches fell:
a logo of a tree in a heart.
They're from the Lofty Pines Motel.
All the while our dreams were our own.
All the while that didn't mean all alone.
Well, I gave the editor my pitch:
a series on our cultural wealth,
about the "error of catalogues and lists."
I call it "Why We Fight...Ourselves,"
If only we had nothing to say.
If only we'd done nothing that day.
"Je suis nee pour la chaleur,"
she said, in her Manhattan French.
"On ne peut rien faire de la chaleur,"
We'll just have to take that chance.
We've got world enough and time,
dreaming of the Lofty Pines.
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| Boy Bruised By Butterfly Chase |
Someone was laughing at me without shoes
But the grass felt so good and the day was so blue
Must have tripped, I don't know
Do I remember falling away, nothing that I hold on to,
And not being afraid?
Down, down, down
Falling down, down, down
It's like I was born never touching the ground
Someone was crying while I lay in the dirt
I could hear their hearts breakin' but I wasn't even hurt
Down, down, down
Falling, down, down, down
Was like I was born never touching the ground
Ground, ground
Was like I was born never touching the ground
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| Mystery |
Somewhere there's a soccer game.
I can hear the wild crowd moan.
It's not that life here's distasteful to me
It's just that I'm all alone.
I wanted what took a lifetime to learn.
And that determined then
With no more pause than a sigh
Turn and start again.
It's not that it's such a mystery.
I saw it from miles away.
In time I'll only think of you
When I'm buttering my toast
Or in some other reflexive moment
When I expect the least
Or the most.
It's not the most.
It's not that it's such a mystery
It was practically on display.
We've got "world enough and time"
And "wither youth" comes or goes.
I hope you'll always think of me as "mine"
And not one of those.
It's not that it's such a mystery
This new-found malaise.
It's just that this mystery
Has taken your place.
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| Elaborate |
I was talking to Tim.
He said you had a problem
But didn't elaborate.
He was on a streetcar home
Talking on his cell phone
He couldn't elaborate
He said, "The bad news come down."
Triple-screening or the ultra-sound
Didn't look so great
He said he saw you with your guitar
And you were low
He didn't elaborate.
He said, "Just call him, ya know,
because I can't really, ya know, elaborate."
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| Yer Possessed |
"Go home. I'd be surprised
If you could find it with those eyes."
"Ah, go ahead and get hit by a bus."
It was the look in your eyes
When you said something like
"It's just us." ("It's just us.")
Tears streaming down my cheeks, (Tears streaming down my cheeks)
"Just take me down to Lansdowne Street. ("Just take me down to Lansdowne Street)
Fenway Park? C'mon, it's not like they keep it hid!" (Fenway Park? C'mon, it's not like they keep it hid!")
It was the look in your eyes you said, (It was the look in your eyes you said)
"No one's going to hurt me like you did." ("No one's going to hurt me like you did.")
Rolling Over it a thousand times (Rolling Over it a thousand times)
In the narrow flume of my mind. (In the narrow flume of my mind)
O what I'd give for just one small caress. (O what I'd give for just one small caress)
It was the look in your eyes (It was the look in your eyes)
When you said something like (When you said something like)
"Yer possessed." ("Yer possessed.")
You're possessed. (You're possessed)
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| Every Irrelevance |
There's no sound so profound
Can't even be heard
No science or violence
That can't be disturbed.
So just say it, convey it.
Sing out like a bird
If it's a secret, I'll keep it
I give you my word
Even though I know
It don't make any sense
I'm in love with your every irrelevance
Catharsis?
My arse is capable of more flush.
An exposure
Just for "closure" won't accomplish much
And if these loose words, go unheard
What's it matter to us,
Because we're friends
And in essence, it's all about trust.
And all at once
Life's richness and consequence
Was there in your every irrelevance.
Even though I know it don't make any sense,
I'm in love with your every irrelevance
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| Insomniacs Of The World, Good Night |
I can see the line of your brassiere.
I can contemplate it from here.
There's no need for breathlessness
When we're so far apart.
I see us writhing in a phone booth
Or laid back in the dewy grass of our youth
And wishing on the Neverstar
And happy days of electrical smiles
And loving evenings falling down in piles
And not imagining a restlessness
That could keep us apart.
If I could sleep there's a chance I could dream
And reconjure all of these vivid scenes.
O insomniacs of the world, good night.
No more wishing on the Neverstar
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