Album #2, "Heartbreak Sampler"

Some Dreams by Crooked Roads

Artist:	Crooked Roads
Album:	Heartbreak Sampler
Title:	Some Dreams
Track number:	2
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Lyrics

I could sit and complain so I think I will
when every stranger’s eye is a bitter pill
And you walk down the street thinking nothing will ever change.
I always had friends back in my high school.
I used to like making A’s and dressing cool.
But I can’t help feeling like a goddamn fool these days.

Chorus
Is it something ‘bout me? Sometimes I gotta wonder.
Or does everybody feel this way?
Like I’m just about to go under
and like all my dreams have faded away.

I used to have a woman she would sparkle and shine.
You know I found her on the street like a brand new dime.
She reminded me of something that I knew was mine long ago.
And she still doesn’t think she did anything wrong.
Oh but I think I’ve let it go and I’m moving on.
Only now I can’t swallow about half the songs I hear.

Chorus

You don’t need cowboy boots and a honky-tonk to feel blue.
I got on my tennis shoes now and any street corner will do.

There’s a good stiff wind blowing through this town,
knocking any good intentions that I had down.
And it ain’t just here, seems like it follows me ‘round everywhere.
Every man’s dream is to get back home.
Oh but he still goes walking on down that road.
Looking far and wide for something close to the bone.

Chorus
Is it something ‘bout me? Sometimes I gotta wonder.
Or does everybody feel this way?
Like even when you’re six feet under
Some dreams never go away.

About the artist

I grew up in the New Hampshire countryside, in a little town. A thousand people. Time was slow. Had about three friends. We rode bikes around the village common, played football with their older brothers, or war. I spent a lot of time in the woods. I wanted to see animals. They were magical to me. A brook ran behind our house. I fished for trout or caught crawfish in the summer and walked along it like a path in the winter. Shelves of ice on the rocks, quiet. I drew pictures a lot. That was my thing. Dad played guitar, piano and trombone. I plunked out some melodies I liked on the piano. Like “The Entertainer” and “Maple Leaf Rag.” Mom had Beatles records. They made me think if there is a God, He’s speaking through these guys. That music was unbelievably bright and bursting. Never thought about doing what they did.

Middle School. New town. More people, new kids. Trying to be popular, trying to fit in. Wear the right shoes. Played trumpet in the band mostly because Dad wanted me to. Things go on like this through high school. Magic dies. Typical.

College. Harvard to be exact. First time in the “big city.” Feel lost. But something’s waking up inside. Take some philosophy, meet some interesting kids. Join the Harvard Lampoon, a humor rag. I kinda fit there. Decide to be a writer. Short stories.

Summer after junior year, I’m staying with my Mom in California where she moved. I put on Dylan’s Freewheelin’ record. Comes on like a ghost—from some other realm. Cuts right through everything. Also reading DH Lawrence & Nietzsche. Instinct. I learn some chords on the guitar.

Graduation. Real world. “Poetry” starts coming into my head and I write it down. Weird things that I don’t show to anyone, except once to Robert Bly. He likes it, tells me to work at it. On the outside, I move to LA to write comedy with a buddy & we get an agent. But I can’t take LA and move north. Write a screenplay, option it to Warner Bros. Keep playing guitar on my own, until eventually I write some songs. Melodies come to me, sometimes like magic, sometimes when I work at it. Mostly it’s the lyrics that take time. I want every word to matter.

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