Get all 17 Paul Kotheimer releases available on Bandcamp and save 40%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of FOUNTAIN OF JOY, BEHOLD!, Five Songs, For Now, Terrarium, You don't have to be perfect to fulfill your dream, The Sasquatch E.P., My Message, The Kilogram of Gold, and 9 more.
1. |
BEHOLD!
04:07
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BEHOLD! BEHOLD! BEHOLD!
Behold the day.
Behold Tuesday.
Behold the million motes of dust in every sunbeam.
Behold the lampshade.
Behold the laundry hamper.
Behold the curling stems and leaves and roses woven on the bath mat.
Behold the shoes.
Behold the fruit bowl.
Behold the peeling paint.
Behold the knot in the baseboard that looks just like the Great Red Spot on Jupiter.
Behold the bread loaf.
Behold the clutter in the basement.
Behold the children’s things that once belonged to children who have since grown and gone.
Behold the mop bucket.
Behold the morning light and the long long shadows of trees.
Behold the trees.
Behold the trees.
Behold the paving brick.
Behold the gutter.
Behold the streetlights in a line along the easement.
Behold the sapling poking out from the foundation.
Behold the ants inside the drooping peony.
Behold the driveway.
Behold the bicycle.
Behold the hidden path.
Behold the rain barrel.
Behold the curious object found upon the sidewalk: Who must have dropped it?
Behold the bus stop.
Behold the runner trying to catch the bus before it pulls away.
Behold the flock of birds that launches off the roof of the hotel downtown in unison,
circling and then landing again all afternoon.
Behold the moon like a chalk dust thumbprint on the daytime sky.
Behold the moon like a chalk dust thumbprint.
Behold the moon.
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2. |
95th & Cicero
02:36
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i was a teenage pothead in the age
of ronald reagan. i looked down upon
my sneakers in the crabgrass at the park
as if from orbit. and i was as high
as sattelites broadcasting MTV
to earth from miles above the stratosphere
and everything was purple in the glow
of arcade screens on satin jacket sheen
on girls from public high school. cigarettes
and cupid candies neon. ninety-fifth
and cicero across the parking lot
from wendy’s and white castle in the rain.
no one remembers all of this but me.
that old arcade is now a shoe repair.
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3. |
On Friday Nights
03:59
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I tried it once, a while ago.
I tried to gig on Friday nights.
I thought they might shut up and hear,
take heed, be moved, or stop and think
at least. It worked—like, maybe twice.
Dumb luck both times, I'm sure, but still,
I knew what it was like, then.
—But why should they shut up for me?
It was their party, after all.
I was just there by accident—
The help, a circus act, some fool
who should play "Freebird" on command,
who carts the gear in from the car
and gets the drunks up dancing.
...So, now that I am tired and old
and Friday night concludes at ten
and crowded bars are not that fun
—The amps and drums are way too loud
and everyone is in your face—
I’d rather sit around the house
and play guitar and sing some.
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4. |
Idleness
02:27
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Idleness.
Idleness.
Sweet idleness.
Gotta get me some of this:
Sittin by a riverside
watching some ducks float by
Little white butterfly
Doesn’t need a reason why
You may have somewhere to go
and you gotta be there on time,
but me, I got this golden afternoon
full of nothing but
Idleness.
Sweet idleness.
I tell you the bliss is bless.
Never been such a thing as stress.
Aw, honey, just say yes
to idleness.
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5. |
Isaiah Hunt
03:51
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Here’s a place to remember.
Here is a place to grieve and rest.
Here’s from one courageous teenager
in her hi-vis bicycle vest.
Here’s a song for Isaiah
crying out above the Boneyard Creek.
Here’s a song for the Beatitutes:
Blessed, blessed are the meek.
Here was a hail of gunfire
Maybe 40, 50 rounds, maybe more.
Oh and here come the ambulance in the aftermath
of that shootout at the liquour store.
Oh and here’s a little flag that marks where someone
threw their gun down on the ground.
Here’s a stray shell casing
the investigators never found.
Here’s a line in the newspaper.
Here’s a clue for us to comprehend.
Here was the deadly confrontation
and on that porch there was the tragic end.
Who will screech away to shoot again
and who will take the fatal shot?
Won’t take but thirty seconds
to decide the outcome in that parking lot.
But why? How come this has to happen?
Why must the children and the grandmothers weep?
Why all these gunshots in the nighttime?
Why these nightmares that torment our sleep?
—I sure don’t know, but when a bullet hits an artery,
you bleed until you can’t bleed any more.
July the 30th, 3:23AM:
Isaiah Hunt was twenty-four.
Here’s a place to remember.
Here is a place to grieve and rest.
Here’s to one courageous teenager
in her hi-vis bicycle vest
who rendered aid to poor Isaiah
bleeding out above the Boneyard Creek.
Here’s a song for the Beatitutes:
Blessed, blessed are the meek.
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6. |
The Way the Time Goes By
02:22
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My feet’s too hot and hers too cold.
That’s how we stayed together ’til we got this old—
Singin’ way oh, way oh, the time goes by.
Her feet’s too cold, and mine’s too hot,
Still don’t you wish you had a little of what we have got?—
Singin’ way oh, way oh, the time goes by.
So she wears wool and I wear cotton.
Our good old times, they are not forgotten—
Singin’ way oh, way oh, the time goes by.
And I wear cotton and she wears wool.
The kids are all grown and our bellies are full—
Singin’ way oh, way oh, the time goes by.
Singin’ way oh, way oh, the time goes by.
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7. |
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Well, I could get up and go. Find my coat and my hat,
but it don’t make no sense to fuss and worry about that,
‘cause ain’t nothing gonna buy my baby that new pair of shoes,
and that’s why I got the blues.
I went to my broker—pawn broker—in the pouring rain.
He pawned my umbrella—Yes, and papa’s watch and chain,
but still, ain’t nothing gonna buy my baby that new pair of shoes,
and that’s bad news, but…
Come Friday evening when the sun goes down,
see all them people promenading downtown
with all that money so crisp and green—
Well, did I mention that my baby wears a size sixteen?
I could go to the church, sit down at a pew,
at least until I think of something better to do,
Still ain’t nothing gonna buy my baby that new pair of shoes,
(Speaking purely metaphorically:)
Ain’t nothing gonna buy my baby that new pair of shoes.
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8. |
Going Through Something
04:00
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What demons that I have, well, they're not that hard to hack.
Sure, they torment me a little, but then they cut me some slack.
And whenever those demons make me just wanna quit,
I can think of all my friends who've really been through some shit.
Yeah, 'cause everybody's going through something—
Staring at the ceiling. Wee hours of the morning.
Everybody's going through something,
and what exactly that it is, you may never know.
Could be gearing up for some fateful conflagration,
chasing some kind of revelation, or some grief and confrontation
—Everybody's going through something,
So please be gentle; take it easy; take it slow.
So we contend with this condition—These desires. And those regrets.
Me, I’m out here tryin to be a good one. Tryin to pay down some of these debts.
And there is just one rule that I know of: Babies, it's that you got to be kind
So we can live upon this wide old world with a satisfied mind.
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9. |
The Weaving Fates
03:33
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Time and time again
(Doesn’t really matter when):
Did we ever even try,
and will either
of us ever win?
Close but no cigar
in the back seat of your brother’s car,
down by the county fair
driving on a spare,
but still we never gone so far.
Throwing good money away
wishing you’d decide to stay,
and “Will you maybe come around
if you’re ever back in town?”
—“Aw hell, honey, who’s to say?”
—‘Cause this story won’t write itself.
And you could wanna
roll back the tapes
erase the pain
smooth out the scars
rewire the brain.
And you could wanna
let go the wheel
say their name like a spell
feel your two naked bodies
singing out, ringing out just like a bell
And you could wanna
go down to the quarry
And you could wanna
swim in the rain
And you could wanna
roll back the tapes
and erase the brain
And you could wanna
patch up the cracks
and set the doorframe right
And you could wanna
scatter the stars—somehow—
differently in the night,
But you can’t take nothing back.
The weaving fates don’t never cut no slack.
And when all is said and done,
you get just one
suitcase up on the luggage rack.
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10. |
Fishhook, Illinois
03:26
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Your love for me’s like Jupiter in the sky at night:
Silver-golden, dazzling bright
—Prob'bly need a telescope to see it right,
but even with the naked eye,
a breathtaking sight.
& My love for you feels like a fishhook in the eye:
Prob'bly just be stuck there 'til I die,
And even in the sweet bye and bye,
every single time I blink, it'll make me cry.
'Cause your love for him rolls like the bottom of the sea.
'Cause far away there is where you would rather, swimming, be.
And all those bioluminescent creatures deep down and floating free
Well, they ain't got nothing—no, they ain't got nothing—
to do with me.
Still we've been married twelve years and a hundred-some days.
Certificate is up there on the wall, and there it stays.
Could be our love is like the moon, and this is just a phase.
Anyways, I wrote another song for you. Let's just see how it plays.
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11. |
WHAT IS THIS?
05:07
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What is this place?
What is this sudden flash of unfamiliarity?
What is this faint drone of fear ringing in my ear from many many years ago? This anxiety?
What is this bird I've never seen or heard around here, with the bright yellow?
What is this tangled, mangled message supposed to even mean?
What is this in-between season, this fickle Illinois weather?
What is this sticky stuff? Could it be the sap from a linden tree?
What is this slow dull ache and this long long longing?
What is this ever so familiar face graying graying? —Still:
What is this sweet little joy, this blushing berry in the underbrush?
What is this limb?
What is this knot?
What is this bud?
What is this leaf?
What is this jittering fluttering glimmering shimmering?
What is this sound?
What is this pulse?
What is this spark?
What is this crash?
What is this chattering clattering in my bones?
What is this new thing?
What is this we're doing?
What is this life, this love, this love, this life, this love, this love?
And what of this life we love, this life-long love, this life, this love?
And what of this life we love, this life-long love, this life, this love?
And what of this life we love, this life-long love, this life, this love?
What is this terror in the night?
What is this shadow on the lawn?
What is this furniture I can't stop kicking?
What is this gripping itching twitching? This soreness underneath? Could it be some vital organ malfunctioning?
What is this throbbing bloody muscle in the middle of my chest?—It keeps beating. Keeps breaking.
What is this wind? This squall, this storm? This flat calm? And then, without warning,
What is this looming tidal wave towering above the skyscrapers, this Godzilla devouring Chicago, laying waste to all of civilization, devastating all of creation? —Wait. Wait…
What is this scary story, this scary, scary bedtime story?
What is this teatime play set EZ bake oven nursery rhyme?
What is this sprawling model train set city with a miniature house just like our house complete with little hydrangeas and plastic figurines of our weird lovely family, now all living separately ever after?
Separately ever after?
What is this pause?
What is this text?
What is this word?
What is this bill?
What is this clause in the rental agreement
for this horrible dusty apartment?
What is this map?
What is this town?
What is this maze?
What is this street?
What is this messy and irrevocable change of name and identity?
What is this new thing?
What the fuck is it we're doing?
What is this life, this love, this love, this life, this love, this love?
And what of this life we love, this life-long love, this life, this love?
And what of this life we love, this life-long love, this life, this love?
And what of this life we love, this life-long love, this life, this love?
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12. |
Thorny Ol' Waltz
03:16
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Well, there’s pain and there’s pleasure. There’s loss and there’s gain.
There’s some thorny ol’ thorns all around on that blackberry cane.
And for every weekend that your name’s up in lights,
you get a year, maybe more, of anonymous lonesome cold nights.
So come on and waltz that thorny old waltz!
Yes, come on and waltz that thorny old waltz!
And for every bright meadow, full-bursting in bloom,
there’s a wasteland enshrouded forever in cloudy grey gloom.
And for every masterpiece hanging up on display,
there’s a warehouse that’s stocked up with canvases mouldring away.
So come on and waltz that thorny old waltz!
Yes, come on and waltz that thorny old waltz!
And it’s now or it’s never. There’s foul and there’s fair.
And if you think it’s just you, well, my friend, take a look anywhere.
Cause there’s joy and there’s sorrow. There’s praise and there’s blame.
And as much as it all slips away, well, it’s more of the same.
So come on and waltz that thorny old waltz!
Yes, come on and waltz that thorny old waltz!
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Paul Kotheimer Urbana, Illinois
For well over 30 years now, Paul Kotheimer has been writing songs. And then recording them. And then putting them together
into albums.
At first, way way back in the actual 1980s, he used a cassette player and a microphone from Radio Shack. Now he's the proprietor of Pillow Monster Home Studio, complete with lots of musical instruments and recording gear and one actual pillow monster. YAY MUSIC!
... more
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