|
07 Oct 04 - 10:42 PM (#1291892) Subject: Lyr Req: Holly Tannen's 'J Edgar Hoover' song From: GUEST,Motogrrl To save my life, I can neither remember, nor find online, the lyrics to a great song I heard Holly Tannen sing, to the tune of "Joe Hill", that begins, "I dreamed I saw J Edgar Hoover, alive as you and me..." Anybody got 'em? Cheers, - Motogrrl |
|
07 Oct 04 - 10:54 PM (#1291907) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Holly Tannen's 'J Edgar Hoover' song From: open mike i guess you could ask her: here is her web site |
|
08 Oct 04 - 03:55 AM (#1292079) Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Holly Tannen's 'J Edgar Hoover' song From: Joe Offer I think she has only two CD's out, and I can't see it on either of them. Could be it's a parody she sent to Faith Petric's column in Sing Out! - I think she's sent a good number to Faith over the years. I don't know of an index to those parodies, and didn't find any trace of it in a Google search. Open Mike is right - best thing to do is contact Holly through her Website, http://www.hollytannen.com/. Holly is very gracious. I'm sure she'll try to help you. -Joe Offer- |
|
11 Oct 04 - 05:25 AM (#1294163) Subject: Lyr Add: BALLAD OF J. EDGAR HOOVER (Holly Tannen) From: Jim Dixon Looks like Motogrrl found the lyrics and posted them on her own blog but didn't post them here. Lyrics and disclaimer copied from http://www.livejournal.com/users/motogrrl/53421.html THE BALLAD OF J. EDGAR HOOVER Words: Holly Tannen, copyright 1990. Tune: "Joe Hill" by Earl Robinson copyright 1938. I dreamed I saw J. Edgar Hoover 'Live as you or me "But J.," I said, "You're ten years dead." "I never died," said he. "I never died," said he. "For forty years, by fear and greed You ruled the FBI But now we've taken back our rights!" Says he, "I did not die." Says he, "I did not die." Where phones are tapped and lists are kept And documents are shred Where statesmen and reporters lie It's there you'll find J. Ed. It's there you'll find J. Ed. Where poor folks fear to speak their minds And live apart in dread Where crimes are blamed on innocents It's there you'll find J. Ed. It's there you'll find J. Ed. And standing there as fat as life With beady little eyes "So if you think I'm dead," he says "Just try to organize Just try to organize." I dreamed I saw J. Edgar Hoover 'Live as you or me "But J.," I said, "You're ten years dead." "I never died," said he. "I never died," said he. (While Holly has copyrighted the words to insure that no one else claims authorship of them, anybody wishing to sing it or print it has her permission to do so, as long as she is credited. For more information, one may contact her at Box 1136, Mendocino, CA 95460.) |
|
12 Oct 04 - 10:38 AM (#1295209) Subject: Lyr Add: THE LOVE SONG OF J. EDGAR HOOVER From: Jim Dixon [Here's a parody of T. S. Eliot's poem, THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK. Copied from http://www.homepages.paradise.net.nz/ggaskell/eliot.html It was originally published in The National Lampoon.] THE LOVE SONG OF J. EDGAR HOOVER By Sean Kelly, 1972 We'd better go quietly, you and I, When the evening is smeared against the sky Like a witness before a House committee. We'd better tail each other through the streets The undercover beats Of stakeout nights in Mafia hotels And restaurants that front for mob cartels; Streets that follow like a DA's argument Establishing intent To overwhelm you with a leading question.... Oh, let's go and bust a traitor We'll pick up the warrant later. The agents call and call again Talking of Daniel Berrigan. And indeed they'll all do time, That yellow mob that riots in the street, Trashing the banks and breaking windowpanes; They will do time, they will do time. The mug shots are prepared, I'll know their faces when we meet; They will do time for murder, crossing state Lines with intent, their idle little hands Will do time punching out my license plate; Time for throwing and overthrowing, And time for a hundred conspiracies, And a hundred tricks and treacheries, Plenty of time for that where they're going. The agents call and call again Talking of Daniel Berrigan. Yes indeed, they'll all do time, Those Commie symps who talk behind my back, For every liberal sneer and dirty crack, For every smear and bleeding heart attack (They all say: "Look, his arse is getting fat") They criticize my shapeless suits and snappy G-man hat, My collar a size too small, -my simple string cravat (They all say: "His neck is thick, his head is fat") Do I dare Wiretap the universe? I look forward to a time Of decisions and convictions the Supreme Court can't reverse. For I know them all already, I have dossiers on them all:- Have them cold for tax evasion, graft or rape, I've spun out my life on little spools of tape; I have their voices lying, have each spying call, Have dates, names, places, everything I need. Now shall I proceed? And I have known the spies already, known them all- They fix the courts, the CIA was formed by Commie spies, It has all been infiltrated, crawling with those reds, I'll pin the buggers up against the wall. Me and my trusty Feds Will stick the butt-ends of our forty-fours between their thighs! But how shall I proceed? And I have known the arms already, known them all Arms any moron has the right to bear (But in the lab light, fingerprints are there!) Thinking of a gun or rifle Makes me digress a trifle. Along with dope and marked bills, I'll plant pistols on them all. And then should I proceed? And when should I begin? * * * Shall I say, I have gone disguised through littered streets And smelled the smoke that rises from the joints Of long-haired party-members throwing rocks through windows? ... I should have been a pair of rugged cuffs Closing upon the wrists of Eldridge C. * * * My dreams of glory, my ambition, slipped from my hands Smothered by long intrigue, Plots ... subterfuges ... they fatigue My old brain, codes, command and countermands. Should I, after Dillinger, in my finest hour, Have made my move, sought office, taken power? Though I was supercop, and every reader of the Digest knew it, Though I have seen my face (ferocious toad) on every cover and front page, I never took the lead -- remained backstage; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen Life's cameraman focus on me, and snicker. And in short, I blew it. And after all, would it have been worthwhile, Behind the pictures, underneath the rugs, In every nook and cranny to have placed my little bugs, To have them all, the victims and assailants, In me they trust, one nation under surveillance; To have squeezed the universe into a file To open at my whim and/or discretion, To say: "I am Jehovah, strict but fair, My eye is on the sparrow, and on you!" -- If one, sticking a finger in the air, Should say back to the microphone: "Fuck you!" Should say: "Fuck you." And smile. And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the shootouts and the setups and the incriminating leaks, After the columns, after the speeches, after the trials that dragged on for years -- The TV show on which the Chief appears? -- It's just impossible to say how mean I am! But if I had the nerve to let them screen the truth about this sham: Would you have been worthwhile If all my agents, breaking cover, dropping their disguise, Should suddenly surround me, and say to my surprise: "There is a plot. What's more, we're, all In on the plot, investigate us all!" * * * No! I am, not Efrem Zimbalist, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant pig behind the arras, Stupid, and so not easy to embarrass, Useful for busting dealers at the borders, Reading St. Paul to white congregations, Arranging suitable defenestrations, And casting demons out from demonstrations; Sometimes I interrupt assassinations Sometimes I give the orders. I grow old ... I grow old ... Some whom I sent up for life have been paroled. Are my agents wearing sideburns? Who dared to say impeach? I shall give communion breakfast my Commie-menace speech. I have heard canaries singing, each to each. I don't think any more will sing for me. I have seen them burning draft cards in the park Burning the files of bureaus and committees, The wind is black with burning flags and cities. We have, played with fire, bringing down the heat To smother reds and blacks in screens of smoke Till human torches touch us, and we croak. |