Welcome to the fifteenth podcast of 2023. As I close in on the terminus of Letters from Quotidia, I will reprise a few songs that have been downloaded over the years the Letters have been published. The standout is a song which I will provide some context around. I first published it back in 2020 as the pandemic was biting hard. The original post can be found in A Bit of Banter, Episode 70.
Rosalita and Jack Campbell was written almost a quarter of a century ago by Sean Mone of Keady, Co Armagh about the terror of drive-by shootings and targeted assassinations in Belfast in the early 1970s. I first heard the song from Christy Moore’s singing in 2019. It brought me back to my years in Belfast; first, as a teenager, from 1966 to mid-1968 when I spent weekends going to music venues with my girlfriend (later, wife); then, from late 1968- mid 1972 where I attended St Joseph’s College of Education, known colloquially as Trench House, for a teaching degree.
I saw Belfast turn from a vibrant, modern city into a bitter, sectarian battleground in those short years. The descent into hell did not take very long at all. From late 1969 to mid-1970, I lived in a dingy one-room bedsit near Carlisle Circus at the bottom of the Antrim Road. Across the landing lived a boozy journalist from The Belfast Telegraph who would regale me with tales of the dark doings of British special forces and various loyalist and republican groupings. The stuff he knew curdled my blood, even if he did, perhaps, exaggerate for effect. In July 1971
I got married and, in 1972, moved into a small house in a lane just off the Whiterock Road with my wife and infant daughter. There, we experienced the increasing violence that internment without trial spawned- and witnessed (but mostly heard) skirmishes between the IRA and British forces on that road where we could read, from our upstairs bedroom window, the graffito on the cemetery wall, Is There a Life Before Death? In answer to this question, we left the first setting of our married life for Australia in September 1972.
Hearing the song brought it all back, because, not just ourselves, but very many people in Belfast and Northern Ireland have been touched by such a shooting or other instance of violence associated with the “Troubles” which, alas, post-Brexit, may be metastasising again. Put up again thy sword…for all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword. Do any of you think that the words of admonition spoken in the garden of Gethsemane by Jesus has much effect on those who are like the street demons of the song you will hear now? It would be nice to think- yes, a few, even if far too few. Here’s my most downloaded song: [insert song]
Regular listeners to the podcasts will know of my affection for the mythos of the American Old West: its gunfighters, explorers, adventurers, wild women and, in particular, its cowboys. It encompasses most of the 19th Century with its unruly offspring- the Wild West- which stretched from the end of the Civil War, for 30 years, until the advent of the 20th Century. Like so many other aficionados I eagerly consumed movies, TV shows, songs, novels, histories, and documentaries on this fascinating period and I still look forward to more quality work in this genre.
A poem, Out Where the West Begins, written in 1912 by newspaperman Arthur Chapmanto settle an argument between governors of various Western states who each claimed that their state was the true origin of the West, became popular almost immediately and was copied nationally and internationally. I give it here and no explanation will be needed for fans of the genre. Out Where the West Begins.
Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,/Out where the smile dwells a little longer,/That’s where the West begins;/Out where the sun is a little brighter,/ Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,/Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter,/That’s where the West begins.//Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,/Out where friendship’s a little truer,/That’s where the West begins;/Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,/Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing,/Where there’s more-of-reaping-and-less-of-sowing,/That’s where the West begins;//Out where the world is in the making,/Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,/That’s where the West begins;/Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,/Where there’s more of giving and less of buying,/And a man makes friends without half trying,/That’s where the West begins.//
Yes, while the original Old-and-Wild West occurred in a specific place and time, I like to think that it persists in all places and among all peoples who display the generosity of spirit and love of freedom set out in the poem. I had little problem finding a companion piece to the first song of this post. Marty Robbins, according to one account, was travelling along the Carlsbad Highway near El Paso and Juarez in the mid-1950s and wrote a draft of his great song El Paso. Three years later, in 1959 he had finished the draft and recorded El Paso in Nashville.
It is one of the finest songs of the genre and it reached number one in the American charts in 1960 and has charted around the world being covered by among others, The Grateful Dead, who featured it for a quarter century in their sets for a total of 389 performances. Sung by Bob Weir, supported by Gerry Garcia on harmonies, it was the Dead’s most requested number. And, because this is a homage and not a competition, I have no hesitation in giving my version here. Or maybe just a little hesitation… [insert song]
A personal journal such as this will obviously talk about the meaning of the term home and all it connotes from time to time. But as I look back over the past three years of the podcasts, I realise that the concept Home permeates the Letters. The final song of this post was prompted by episode 29, Home, published on 01 March 2021. In it I wrote, On New Year’s Eve, 1999, I was relaxing in my backyard with a beer in my hand and my guitar by my side. My family were all in residence and the sun was shining. The heat of the Australian summer was tempered by a cool breeze. I realised that, for the first time in over thirty years, I was in a place that I could call home without demur.
Some people live in the one spot, the one dwelling, their whole lives as have their parents and grandparents before them and they, in turn, expect to hand on the home to one or more of their children- but such instances must be rare today. For instance, in the first 45 years of my life, I had lived in twenty different places on three continents. However, for the past twenty-five years I have lived at the same address. And counting. The opening of the song that concludes this post was an echo of a line from Robert Frost, whose long conversational poem, The Death of the Hired Man has in it this statement, Home is the place where, when you have to go there,/They have to take you in. The other prompt for the concluding song was episode 65, Homebase, published on 03 May 2021.
Here I will make a comparison between these podcasts and a Bildungsroman. A Bildungsroman relates the growing up or “coming of age” of a person who goes in search of answers to life’s questions. The genre evolved from folklore tales of a dunce or youngest son going out in the world to seek his fortune. Well, I am the youngest son, and many would say I am also a bit of a dunce, too. In the first line of the song, Homebase, I wrote, most things worth knowing I learned by the age of four, school was a drag and I walked out that door, All that I really want, all that I really need is you. Listen to my latest song with the word home in its title and you will see the connections. Here is that song, Home is the Place. [insert song]
Podcast 16 will land in a new month on an ominous date, 6 August, which is the day that humanity- or should that be inhumanity- ushered in what I think of as the beginning of the Anthropocene when the Enola Gay dropped Little Boy, the first nuclear strike, on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. While the pundits are vociferously wondering if AI will spell the end of the human race, maybe it will be beaten to the punch by an older apocalyptic fear.
Rosalita and Jack Campbell (music and words by Sean Mone)
In a bar room in Belfast, into his pint glass,
Jack Campbell he sang as last orders were called.
The bar stool was his mustang, he swayed as his wife sang,
at the gunfire that rang around the O.K. Corral
Her name was Anita, he called her Rosalita
when the beer and the whiskey it went to his head.
To him she’s whisper “let’s take a wee dander,
to where we’ll be cosy in our little homestead”.
When the sun goes behind the black mountain,
street demons come out to dance
And cowboys who sing about gunfights and Indians,
against sub-machine guns they haven’t a chance.
As homeward they rambled, Rosalita and Jack Campbell
called in to their local fast-food takeaway.
As they danced round the chippie, singing yippee-aye-yippee
the crowd in the queue answered Yippe-aye-yay!
Till a car it came cruising, seeking a victim
Jack turned in confusion when he saw the gun.
His last word was “Jesus…” the trigger was squeazed
Jack fell to his knees and the car it was gone.
When the sun goes behind the black mountain,
street demons come out to dance.
And cowboys who sing about gunfights and Indians,
against sub-machine guns they haven’t a chance.
The years passed over, behind her closed door,
Anita she sank into Prozac and gin.
Her nights and her days spent in a haze
down the lonesome road thinking what might have been.
Rosalita, the dark senorita, still waiting to hear
from Jack Campbell her man.
He whispers to her “let’s ride into the sunset”
Heaven’s only one step from the old Rio Grande
When the sun goes behind the black mountain,
street demons come out to dance.
And cowboys who sing about gunfights and Indians,
against sub-machine guns they haven’t a chance.
And way out beyond the black mountain,
Rosalita and Jack Campbell dance,
Where troubles and old songs are forgotten and gone,
And dreamers still hold onto love and romance.
El Paso (Music and lyrics Marty Robbins)
Out in the West Texas town of El Paso
I fell in love with a Mexican girl.
Nighttime would find me in Rose’s Cantina,
Music would play and Felina would whirl.
Blacker than night were the eyes of Felina,
Wicked and evil while casting a spell
My love was deep for this Mexican maiden,
I was in love, but in vain I could tell.
One night a wild young cowboy came in,
Wild as the West Texas wind.
Dashing and daring, a drink he was sharing
With wicked Felina, the girl that I love.
So in anger
I challenged his right for the love of this maiden;
Down went his hand for the gun that he wore.
My challenge was answered, in less than a heartbeat
The handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor.
Just for a moment I stood there in silence,
Shocked by the foul evil deed I had done
Many thoughts raced through my mind as I stood there;
I had but one chance and that was to run.
Out through the back door of Rose’s I ran,
Out where the horses were tied.
I caught a good one; it looked like it could run,
Up on its back and away I did ride.
Just as fast as I
could from the West Texas town of El Paso,
Out to the badlands of New Mexico
Back in El Paso my life would be worthless;
Everything’s gone in life nothing is left.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen the young maiden,
My love is stronger than my fear of death.
I saddled up and away I did go,
Riding alone in the dark.
Maybe tomorrow a bullet may find me,
Tonight nothing’s worse than this pain in my heart.
And as last here
I am on the hill overlooking El Paso,
I can see Rose’s Cantina below.
My love is strong and it pushes me onward,
Down off the hill to Felina I go.
Off to my right I see five mounted cowboys,
Off to my left ride a dozen and more.
Shouting and shooting; I can’t let them catch me
I have to make it to Rose’s back door.
Something is dreadfully wrong for I feel
A deep burning pain in my side.
Though I am trying to stay in the saddle.
I’m getting weary, unable to ride.
But my love for
Felina is strong and I rise where I’ve fallen;
Though I am weary, I can’t stop to rest.
I see the white puff of smoke from the rifle,
I feel the bullet go deep in my chest.
From out of nowhere, Felina has found me,
Kissing my cheek as she kneels by my side.
Cradled by two loving arms that I’ll die for,
One little kiss and Felina goodbye.
Home is the Place (Music and lyrics Quentin Bega)
Home is the place where you can go
When every other place shows you the door
Home is the only place where you know
Friends will bring you joy then bring some more
Where laughter’s always easy never cruel
No one’s cornered as the dunce or fool
Where you can be open and just be yourself
Knowing no one here is hard of heart
Knowing that you won’t be left up on the shelf
That no one wants to tear your peace apart
Here you are contented and it seems
All things are possible even dreams
Hey! Ho! highs and lows round and round my spirit goes
Chasing after moonbeams I suppose in through the meadows of repose
Up down round and round time is slowing winding down
And in this moment not a sound as into your loving arms I drown
Home is the place where you can go
When every other place shows you the door
Home is the only place where you know
Friends will bring you joy then bring some more
Here you are contented and it seems
All things are possible even dreams- even dreams
Credits: All written text, song lyrics andmusic (including background music) written and composed by Quentin Bega unless otherwise specified in the credits section after individual posts. Illustrative excerpts from other texts identified clearly within each podcast. I donate to and use Wikipedia frequently as one of the saner sources of information on the web.
Technical Stuff: Microphone- Shure SM58; (for the podcast spoken content) Audio Technica AT 2020 front-facing with pop filter); Apogee 76K also used for songs and spoken text. For recording and mixing down: 64-bit N-Track Studio 9 Extended used; Rubix 22 also used for mixing of microphone(s) and instruments. I use the Band in a Box/RealBand 2023 combo for music composition.
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