dennis O'Toole

you want me to need you and I need you to want me

your past has freed you; mine keeps coming back to haunt me

you know much more about me, than I'll ever know about you

(darlin', what can I do?)

...

we sit separated by silence, unable to bridge the distance

between tenderness and violence, warmth or resistance

I don't doubt you could live without me;

I could get by without you...but that just won't do

...

the sky's the limit, if we just can hold on

and weather each storm through to the dawn

with so much at stake, heartache can not shake my resolve...

sure, we've got problems to solve

...

we've each got our cycles, like the moon and the tide

the give of our love; the pull of our pride

what we have together, is more than the sum of the parts

I'm talking human hearts...

...

the sky's the limit, and I'm leaving the ground

my hands are trembling, and my heart starts to pound

darlin', come what may, I want to stay around you...

I swear this love is true...

...

you want me to need you... I need you to want me

you want me to need you... I need you to want me...

     ... well ... this is an old song (first track on side 'B' of the 'O'Toole and Friends/Live at Artspace' cassette, recorded July 08th, 1990); and I don't believe it was 'new' at the time; but definitely one of the 'rockier' numbers in the 'folk/rock' set. Dave Borne on guitar, Jim Leslie on the kit; Craig Patterson on the upright bass (this unit would morph into 'The Crossing' not too long after, with J.P. Hovercraft on the electric fretted and fretless basses, as well as adding his vocals to the mix).  This was a heady time for me;t o be taking my original material out to concert and nightclub venues (mostly bars). I recall Andy Pryde giving Dave a crash course in intonating an electric guitar prior to the recording. As The Crossing evolved, I began to delve into the world of electric guitars myself; eventually ending up with three Gibsons onstage (6&12 string 335s, and a little Les Paul Firebrand) fed into a vintage blackface Fender Super Reverb. Some of this outfit can be seen in archival video clips from a concert at The Pines (some footage on the Agoraphobic Folk page, eventually to be transferred here). Looking at the cassette liner notes as I write, I'm struck by the optimism of the young man in his middle to later thirties.

   I had forsaken the world of stimulants (not coffee, of course) in my 35th year; after a woman by the name of Jan Woods had predicted that I ought not to expect to make it past my 40th year. Jan had been commissioned to do an in depth study of John Lennon's astral chart after his tragic assassination by a wealthy fan in Calgary. When I was leaving Cowtown some time after that; she 'read' charts for myself and the woman who was to become Willow's mom. Jan told me that the salient difference between my chart and John's was the ten years between us by birth; and therefore I might do well to get my living in before my 40th year came rolling around. Of course this prompted a spate of hedonistic adventurism. Eventually I settled down to getting some music accomplished; and at one point had Bandanna! on the go, as well as O'Toole and Friends/The Crossing and duo work with Dave Borne. There was a period when Joel Reynolds joined The Crossing and Dave and I in a trio setting on keyboards. Such was my 'rock'n'roll career, for what it was worth. A bit of a tsunami in a teapot; but loads of fun on occasion. Jan died in a motorcycle crash out in the mountains of Alberta sometime thereafter ( I guess she didn't see that coming) and Dave in a crossroads car crash in June of '95. He had been gigging with a bluesman whose name escapes me; but any dream of 'putting the band back together' died with him. Eventually the electric guitars and amp morphed into acoustic instruments; but of late I've been getting back into the world of electric instruments; ( I have several of Peter Cragg's) and one day hope to have an 'outfit' to take out on occasion again. Cousin Michael P. O'Toole and I have a little 'rock'n'roll history' behind us with a band of his associates the never settled on a name. I would jokingly refer to us as 'Five B'Hai and I' (due to their religious affiliation) though we toyed with the names 'Hobbyrocker' and 'Dreamcatcher' by turns. The word 'hobby' has always seemed abrasive to me. I consider music a vocation, whether or not one makes a living (or even any money) at it. Cousin Michael P. and I will play a B'Hai 'NawRuz' (Spring Equinox/new Year) celebration later this month. love to all, d.

he walks in a shady grove...

lay him down 'neath a summer sky

watching dragons and castles move...

changing shape right before his eyes

he sees them fly...

...

seems so log since he was a child...

everything seemed s simple then...

he could latch right onto a cloud...

ride the waves of the restless wind...

... to be a child again!...

...

he's so far from the kiss of his mother now

he's taken, and broken a over's vow

he feels like a bird with a broken wing...

his life is stitched together with guitar strings...

... and other things...

...

there's a meadowlark sitting there on the fence

he's well fed, and he's singing sweet;

to him. life always makes sense...

he's never been beat, out on the street... 

...feeling incomplete...

...

he's never taken, or broken a lover's vow...

or done a little more than the law allows...

ventured too far in a realm of sin...

had to make peace with his soul... to sing again...

he's as free as the wind!

...

he walks in a shady grove... lay him down 'neath a summer sky...

watching castles and dragons move...

changing shape right before his eyes... see them fly...

...walking in a shady grove... lay him down...

...walking in a shady grove...

    ...well... this may be one of the last lyrics from the 1990 'O'Toole and Friends/Live at Artspace' recording; originally released on cassette (yes, cassettes and .45 rpm records were still the method of delivery for me at the time)... I often suggest that I co-wrote this poem with my father; but more likely he was close at hand when it came together. 'W.G.' lived out his years in a little house behind a not much bigger house where we lived in a rather 'communal' setting. My young man and my old man and myself were an adventurous trio for a number of years; and those memories sustain me now that they are both gone on. This song is my 'Sugar Mountain', I guess.

seems so long since I've heard a whip-poor-will

that I can scarce recall the sound

takes me back to a time when you loved me still

we lay on our backs on the ground...

and the stars up above were a witness to love

the wind sighed in sweet harmony

to the whip-poor-will's call when I pledged you my all

and you promised you'd always love me

...

spring faded to fall... the wild goose call

was my reason to wander and roam

to seek my fortune and fame

so you could proudly wear my name

while the whip-poor-will sane 'round our home.

...

I don't know how I survived when that letter arrived

and I saw that it was edged in black

"Blll; your darling is dead...".. were the words that I read

and all of my dreams were crushed by this fact

...

it seems so long since I've heard that sad ('ol) whip-poor-will

yet it seems the one sound I crave...

still the memories burn, (perhaps) one day I'll return

to stand, hat in hand; at her grave

I'll leave this dirty old town... sirens and factory sounds

for that little church yard on the hill

through my tears and pain... perhaps hear, once again...

the song of that sad whip-poor-will.

   ... well ... .this is an old timer; and yet the previous tune put me in mind of it; and by rare happenstance I could lay hand on it. From an old ledger that I transcribed some notebooks into while visiting my pal Rob Loree some time back. A 'co-write' as it turns out. ; with 'Washboard' Hank Fisher; himself a serious student of old time music. This ballad follows time honoured tradition and theme; as would the arrangement;were it ever to be recorded. 

let me call you 'sweetheart'... 

like they sang back before the war...

before the battle of the sexes (and whatever that was came next) 

had us runnin' for the door...

...

I'm craving one 'true romance';

like some sweet old Tin Pan Alley song...

back when they'd put another nickle in ...that old nickelodeon...

and sweethearts would sing along...

...

I've spent my time among the 'modern lovers'

and I can tell you that's just not my style...

and that sort of callous game ...surely puts 'love' to shame

and misses the mark by a country mile...

...

so darlin', let me call you 'sweetheart'...

accept this song as a virtual 'valentine'...

or maybe even better... a musical ragtime love letter;

now tell me you'll be mine...

...

'cause I'm craving one true romance...

like some sweet old Tin Pan Alley tune...

where a cherubic Cupid hovers... over starstruck lovers

dancing beneath a paper moon.

     .. well ... on the topic of 'Tin Pan Alley'... this is a new song... ( like, 'brand new'... a work in progress) inspired by my current  'sweetheart' (dear heart) and a little 'lick' I stumbled across on the guitar; trying to figure out where I might use a particular chord that only ever cropped up (for me) in Fred Neil's blues classic 'Handful of Gimme'. My mom and dad would take autumn vacations, ( mostly affordable day trips) driving around Ontario marveling at the colours in the trees; stopping in little taverns to have an ale and play the jukebox (apparently Porter Wagoner's 'Carroll County Accident' was a favourite; though they were by no mean 'C&W' fans, as a rule...).      My mother would tell of a time when she approached some backwoods barkeep for change to  play the jukebox... "...for the 'nickelodeon'..." she said...he replied: "Lady, where have you been?" ... and that always encapsulated my parent's 'honky tonk' experience for me... and it seemed a highlight when I first heard my own songs on a jukebox... (or the radio, for that matter)... you may be sure that a copy of the Bandanna! 45 rpm recording got left anywhere it might get loaded onto the 'nickleodeon'...

well, I took my song about my girl named Sally

down to the boys in Tin Pan Alley

the man's smilin' face was like a big full moon

signed me to a contract on the 06th of June...

gave me a couple 'toots' from a silver spoon...

said he wouldn't  'snow' me.

...

he had pictures on the walls of all kinds of 'stars'

big breasted women lyin' on fancy cars...

he said: "Son, I know how to play this game;

why, I hold the keys to fortune and fame...

by next week you'll be a household name...

but first, we'll change it...

...

we'll get rid of that hat, and those 'cowboy' clothes;

get you some latex pants, and a smaller nose...

Son, you sing and play real fine;

but seein' as how this song is now half mine;

let me get my 'hooks' int a couple of lines...

and I'll own three quarters..."

...

'Let me tell you; I know just what the people like;

we'll turn your girl Sal into a dyke

and she'll slit her wrists over her lost lover;

her suicide note will blow her cover...

it'll be the 'last straw' for her aging mother...

YouTube'll love the video... it'll go 'viral'...

we'll be laughin'...

...

he says: "There'll never be another 'King'; you know what I mean?

but country coud surely use another kind of 'Queen'..."

and with that he give my ass a squeeze;

suggested I get down on my hands and knees...

and let the bugger do whatever he please...

says: "What's the matter, boy?...didn't you read the 'fine print'?

... you're going to choke on it..."

...

friends; I left that place in an awful huff...

kept my 'artistic pride'; but Lord, times got tough...

and seein' as how my Sal's so sweet;

why, to pay the rent, I put her out on the street...

soiled my bride... kept my pride... aw, let it slide...

hell, I ain't goin' to prostitute my art...

you bet your boots... 'cause I pawned mine.

    ... well ... 'talkin' blues' was/is a time honoured tradition in 'the music biz'; though gone the 'way of  all flesh' for all intents and purposes in this digital age... (my old pal Buzz 'Mr. Soul' Thompson used to sing a laconic talkin' bIues that he had learned from his dad 'Hec'(tor) by the title of: "Life Gets Tedious ('tee-jus'); Don't It?"... and though Buzz didn't have much use for 'cowboy and western' music; he could see the value in a song that might raise a smile... I wrote this tune many years ago; after signing my first (and only) 'management' deal that went nowhere in particular (and eventually petered out in mutual dissatisfaction)... 'Tin Pan Alley' of course was the section of New York city that spawned the plethora of 'tunesmiths' in the 'golden age' of 'sheet music' (way back when...)... I sang this song 'live' on Trent Radio when I was a much younger man (and mine own mother was tuned in; to our mutual chagrin, I'm sure...)... I've 'updated' it some in this transcription (needless t o say, it's never been recorded); as there certainly was no 'YouTube' or internet 'back in the day'... the reference to 'big breasted girls ('titted' in the original) layin' on fancy cars' was a nod to the classic 'Candy-O' cover (by Vargas?) for The Cars' album. I actually bought a meticulously cut out example of this 'album art' at a yard sale some years back; and it resides (in storage) with many priceless/worthless items of 'art' in my archival 'vault'.

     'Talkin' Blues' is traditionally a recitation of sorts over a simple recurring chord progression, and this little ditty is no exception. My attempt at humour; for what it's worth. And a young man's somewhat disillusioned (jaded?) take on 'The Music Biz'. love to all (especially Sally). d.

hurry sundown... put this day to rest

I'm feeling run down... not up to my best

this day is nt my own, and I'd sooner be at home

hurry sundown... I'll fly back to the nest.

...

hurry sundown, come on twilight...

let the first star herald the kind night

hurry sundown... come on moon rise 

let me lay down... and close these tired eyes.

...

hurry sundown... I need my lover's tuch

night can't come too soon

this day has been too much

and I'm feeling too rough

for naught but making love...

hurry sundown... bring me what I'm dreaming of.

    ... well ... I almost recall the day this little lyric was penned... (though it could have been any of many)... I spent far too many days in the sad homes of other people; back when it was my lot to do so, in order that folks might spend time with their children... 'supervised access'... an uncomfortable situation at best; and often far from 'best'. I would often introduce myself as 'friend of the family' (when other folks would wonder who the heck I was)... and that was who and what I tried to be...friend to the children, certainly. Some of the most heartfelt (and hard) condolences to accept after the passing of my son came from 'clients'. They knew all too well the pain of having a child 'taken'... though of course not in so final a manner. love to all, d.

..." We are each of us angels... with only one wing...

      we can only fly... embracing each other..."   -Luciano de Credenza.

...this inscription graven in stone beneath a statue at the entrance to St. Joseph's Hospital in Toronto... where I would occasionally visit my brother Peter William Emmett O'Toole when his mental health issues required residency. I believe this lyric was in fact a song sung at a'Songwriters Unite' evening at Hugh's Room some years back... the title, of course, also a novel by Robertson Davies... (but titles are exempt from copyright restrictions.

 walk with me through this world of wonder

smoky mirrors and mystery

even when a soul seems torn asunder

there remains a realm of possibility

...

keep your chin up, and take my advice

both love and lightning have been known to strike twice

walk with me through this world of wonder

open your eyes and see

...

we are each of us angels with only one wing

it's in the embrace lies our hope to fly...

let us join voices, and in harmony sing

raise a joyful noise to the sky

...

take a leap of faith...don't look so pained

it's true; nothing ventured nets nothing gained

soar with me over this world of wonder

don't stop to ask how or why

...

sail with me...across this sea of sorrow

we'll make it through to the far shore...

and bask in the promise and dawn of tomorrow

secure in our dreams once more...

...

take your chances now, you just might beat the odds

as the devil dances

perhaps so must the gods

join with me in this world of wonder

cling to me as a divining rod. 

    ... well ... htis one culled from an old ledger that became a repository of 'song scraps' and notes from various little books... (transcribed August 29th/2018, according to the date at the top of the page, but much older than that). Generally when there is a date on the original piece. I would include that; but dating verse has come to me later in the game than I might have wished. I actually pulled the last line today from my dog-eared copy of Bessie Redfield's Rhyming Dictionary; as the verse/lyric was missing a last line. I've rarely resorted to 'Bessie', but bought the book originally having read that Bob Dylan claimed such a thing indispensable. Mind you, I am of the (humble) opinion that such usage shows in many of the Bobster's later lyric. Sometimes the rhyme seems a little contrived, (but who am I to say, really...). love to all, (you too, Bob), d.

it's an act of human bondage... this welding of the hearts

the whole is greater than the sum of... the wedding of the parts

it's a fact of human bondage... the flesh will not be denied

an act of human bondage... daring, my hands are tied

still, I aspire to a higher plane... though I'm buut a man made of mud...

a paradise to be regained... I believe it in my blood.

n the tract f human bondage... boundaries are bound to blur...

on the map of human bondage... errors may occur.

there's a trace of human bondage... in every intimate embrace

the masked face of human bondage... difficult to track or trace

seeking truth in ancient adage... dark wisdom in old wive's tales...

still, in light of human bondage... much held for fact fails.

still, I aspire to a higher lane... while I wait for my wings...

in this cocoon of human bondage... there's a song my soul sings

as a child I would steal a glimpse... a print on my parent's bedroom wall

poor Hylas and the water nymphs... I could hear their siren call...

it's an act of human bondage... this inarticulate speech of the heart;

the exactitude of human bondage... comes in fits and starts...

still, I aspire to a higher plane... though I'm but a man made of mud...

a paradise to be regained...  I believe it in my blood.

it's an act of human bondage... this desire to fulfill that which we crave

the service of such a restless mistress... demands neither master nor slave.

it's an act of human bondage... the flesh will not be denied...

it's an act of human bondage...

you must see... my hands are tied.

     ...well... this song has been gestating/percolating away for a long time... recorded once; but might need to be redone... as a young man,  was entranced by a print of 'Hylas and the Water Nymphs'... an assortment of beckoning beauties (glimpse of breasts, no less) in sepia tint, encouraging young Hylas to try life under the water...I viewed a film with Kim Novak (Of HumanBondage...which my friend Tim Williams told me was an adaptation of a W. Sommerset Maughan story) which imprinted on me strongly. I think back to the images of my youth that had great sexual impact, and can't help but wonder how differently the barrage of pornography in our current society must be affecting our young people, male and female (and everything in between). Gone the days of furtive viewing of (someone else's) parental magazines. I recall being caught up short at the Exhibition (irony not lost) in a canvas tent, where I was slamming a photo machine which had not delivered the nickel 'blue' postcards as promised. The carny grabbed me by the collar, and made me wait while he opened up the machine and gave me my dime's worth of illicit imagery. Nothing to compare with the 'pocket porn' available on any cell phone these days, but heady stuff for the times (at least in my little East City Catholic enclave). That mix of curiosity and innocent ignorance might well have landed me easy prey for a pedophile priest; but perhaps my getting kicked out of 'altar boy class' for not having learned the responses to the Mass in Latin over the Easter break that long ago year was the kick start of my lifelong tendency to get by on a 'clear cut case of more luck than brains...' Whatever the  case, I made it through my awkward Catholic years with no major religious trauma; and most certainly did not foist that whole scene on my own children. There is a lyric tentatively titled 'Sins of the Fathers' that has yet to come to fruition, but I suspect it will

    I have left this 'work in progress' as one lengthy poem; thought in 'song' form it allows for the couplets to stand as 'verses'. 'Of Human Bondage', indeed. Mild allusion is made to the trappings of S/M role play, but it's really about the depth of commitment we allow (indeed demand?) in our human relations. love to all (whatever that means as individuals), d.

they'll talk about a 'reputation'... what do they know?

they whisper in the shadows of their fears...

they'll envy you a situation; deal you a bitter blow

but gossip only interests idle ears...

don't you worry about a thing... listen t this song I sing

close your eyes  and fly with me, little wing...

to someplace far away..we'll be back by break of day

when sunrise strums the dawn on silver strings...

...

what can I say to you, child... to set your mind at ease

we all have our special cross to bear...

the tamest horse can turn wild, and take into the trees

et her hoof prints fade into the first snows of the year...

and the same is true of you... just take pride in what you do

you only have to heed the call of your own heart...

don't let conscience be your guide lay regrets and memories aside

take a hand and cast yourself in a new part...

...

I can tell you one thing truly... I can see you want to

I can show you just how to get through to me...

and if you believe me, it won't hurt so to leave me;

take my hand, you can stand right next to me...

don't you worry about a thing... listen to this song I sing

close your eyes and fly with me, little wing...

to someplace far away... we'll be back by break of day...

when sunrise strums the dawn on silver strings...

...

talk about a 'reputation'... (huh..)... what do they know?

    ...well.. not Jimi's 'Little Wing' by a long shot... ths one turned up on those old Cragg/Bertok/O'Toole sessions from Artspace (1978?)... I recall  the boys using the straps (three) from my old Guild guitar case ( the handle was gone, and this was some time before gig bags were at all common or available...)... tied to a pillar to keep distance from the microphone (shades of brave Ulysses...),, pretty rough stuff, but once again ; Pete and Geo laid down some lovely supporting arrangements. Hell, I listen to scratchy records; I can surely listen to this on occasion. The whole premise a little shaky, though I suspect there was a young lady or two in mind... the one in particular feeling trapped in her small hometown, 'reputation' firmly established by the time we met. The term 'child' a colloquialism; not a suggestion of under age status... (and it rhymes with 'wild'; donchyaknow ). " sunlight strums the dawn on silver strings..."... I suspect I was listening to a fair bit of Townes Van Zandt back then. love to all, d.

you're walking on a tightrope...cherishing a slim hope

hanging on by a thread

slipping on to thin ice,  ain't got time to think twice

tomorrow you might be dead

...

when there's a red sun rising up above ground zero

there'll be no time for lies. or playing the hero

Satan's tuning up a fiddle...

going to play a little 'Nero's Blues'...

...

countdown in 'the cold war'... what the hell is it for?

you need no chainsaw to cut your throat...

taking too much for granted, when you get what you wanted

you'll realize you've missed the boat

...

when there's a red sun rising up above 'ground zero';

there'll be no time for lies, or playing the hero...

Satan is tuning up his fiddle

gonna play a little 'Nero's Blues'...

...

anic on th main line, blod as cheap as red wine

hand trembles on the hotline 'phone

they're all strung out on power, trying to be 'man of the hour'

when the hour is all it's own...

...

whoa, and time ain't talkin', though she hints she knows

exactly what the man is like beneath his clothes...

early in the mornin', now; sailor take warnin'

when the ill wind blows...

...

the man talking on the TV, he ought to be in moves

he's got that slick trickster smile

both the hawks and the doves, got horseshoes in their gloves

kangaroo court martial trial...

...

and poor blind Justice, crying on the witness stand

trying to explain 'rape' to a jury of men...

she looks like Venus de Milo with the cuffs on her hands

,,,they don't understand...

...

you're walking on a tight rope... cherishing a slim hope

hanging on by a thread...

slipping onto thin ice, ain't got time to think twice;

tomorrow we may all be dead...

when there's a red sun rising up above 'ground zero'

there'll be no time left for playing the hero...

Satan is tuning up his fiddle;

get ready for a little 'Nero's Blues'!...

     ...well... this is not a new song... 'the man talking on the TV, ought to be in movies..." was in fact Ronald Reagan, when this song was written... who could have guessed the buffoonery that would beset the U.S.A. to follow?...'ground zero' was wherever a nuclear device was detonated, not a hallowed hollow in the New York City skyline... a word or two has changed since this song was recorded, and changes yet to come. I'm sure... ( I guess 'change' is all we can ever be sure of... sure would be good to see some positive change in this sad old world...) love to all, d.