Folksinger and Songwriter Al Grierson Dies in Texas Flood

date:11/7/00

Al Grierson last time I saw him: at last winter's Folk Alliance in Cleveland. That's pal Utah Phillips at right. (photo: HB)

The online community and friends around the U.S. and Canada mourn the death this week of singer-songwriter Al Grierson. Last week on the way home from a gig at a school near his home in Luckenbach, Texas, his truck stalled in the rising waters of a flash flood as he tried to make it across a bridge. When he got out of the cab, he was swept away by the raging river. He was 51. This article at cnn.com gives a surprisingly good picture of the man, his life and the tragic accident that ended it.
http://www.cnn.com/11/05/al.grierson/index.html

Grierson, at various times a Buddhist monk, hobo, poet, philosopher, and labor activist was a true original. His songs, known among an exceedingly small circle of friends and admirers, have the spark of genius in them and a generosity of spirit. He was also a collector of old songs and a champion of great music - the songs of Jack Hardy for instance. In the last several years, he recorded two CDs - Things That Never Added Up to Me and, just last year, A Candle for Durruti.

The irony is that Al only recently purchased this used truck - he was able to buy it with the help of friends through the internet, who gladly sent him money from all around the country within a day or two.

You can find out more about Al's music and hear a soundclip at this page:
http://www.surfnetusa.com/celtic-folk/artists/algrierson.htm

And there's a tribute page of photos and links at Utah Phillips' website:
http://www.utahphillips.org/al/

I had the pleasure of knowing Al and swapping some songs. We only crossed paths a few times, but that was enough to form a bond. He was one of those people who was never only partly there. He had the art of being completely present, all the time. I last saw him at the Folk Alliance in Cleveland last February (see my article). It was late in the evening and he was comfortably ensconced among old hobo friends including Utah Phillips, wearing his signature dog-eared cowboy hat and ragged bandana, and sang an old folk song - one of the thousands that he knew - about two hobos who get their revenge on a vindictive railroad bull. Later, I found him in another hotel room at a gathering of Austin songwriters. There, he sang a long, visionary song that put me into a trance - I felt I'd been taken on a journey, but couldn't remember a single word of the spell. Afterwards, I asked him if he could e-mail the lyrics. When they came, I hesitated to read, wondering if the song could possibly be as good as I imagined it must have been....

Can't think of a better tribute for a man who always signed off on his letters with "For the roses,":

The Petals
by Al Grierson

come with me and be my love and we'll go high above the city
to the mountains where the olden rivers run
and I'll lay for you a table just as fine as I am able there
to eat the golden apples of the sun

and it'll be you and me, honey, at the dawn of all creation
watching God set down the needle in the groove
and we'll both just sit and gaze into the empty face of darkness
till we notice something move
where the necessity of sin has yet to blossom or begin
though you can feel the heavy purpose in the air
as in the beauty of His grace He comes to look upon your face
and kiss the petals on the flowers in your hair

come with me and be my love, oh lay me down among the lilies
lay beside me like an autumn afternoon
lay beside me till I shiver in that place inside the river
where you hide the silver apples of the Moon

and it'll be you and me, honey, at the fall of Rome
and off in China at the building of the wall
and with an unknown soldier who was buried with the king
for running naked with a message down the hall
to tell them Pharaoh's drunken army wasn't even after Moses
they were looking for the answer everywhere
to the riddle of the sphinx; it's not where anybody thinks
it's in the petals on the flowers in your hair

so come with me and be my lover in the shadow of the furnace
where another holy chamber used to be
and a chilly wind's still blowing there to keep the embers glowing
in the ashes of some other century

and it'll be you and me, honey, at the burning of St. Joan
pulling meaning from a senseless sacrifice
like a pair of lonely pilgrims on our way to find forgiveness
in a place between the fire and the ice
and the streets are all embarrassed at the sound of her confession
and there's incense in the smoke that fills the square
as the smell of holy flesh from Burgundy to Bangladesh
recalls the petals on the flowers in your hair

then come with me and be my love and we'll go round and round the riddle
whether God should be a lady or a lord
or if a fate not fully flowered was protecting Mr. Howard
or rehearsing in the hands of Robert Ford

and it'll be you and me, honey there in Northfield, Minnesota
where the living ended bloodied up in chains
and as we drag them from the streets we'll be ashamed to tell the dying
that they maybe should have stuck to robbing trains
and though love is like a river, you can never really break it
you can shape it on the anvil of despair
and is there still a trace of lead there on the fingers of the dead
that pull the petals from the flowers in your hair

then come with me and be my love, oh give me hope and give me shelter
lay me down between the lion and the lamb
see me safely through the slaughter, down beside the peaceful waters there
and love me till I don't know who I am

and it'll be you and me at the apocalypse, honey
as the world goes up in flames
and everybody acts surprised; they got that look there in their eyes
but there's a man been going round just taking names
and it looks like Rhett and Scarlet with the burning of Atlanta
in the background on some old-time movie screen

or like Warren Beatty and Diane Keaton all wrapped up in each other's arms
while a movie orchestra plays "The Internationale" and in the background the
Bolsheviks are busy taking the city and they're so wrapped up in each other
they don't even seem to notice and you gotta wonder-if that's what he was
really doing, how John Reed ever even wrote "Ten Days That Shook the World"

and it's a long way back to 1917

and there ain't no second coming, ain't no "comes the revolution"
just a rainbow sign dissolving the air
time was but time shall be no more, there's no more peace and no more war
and no more petals on the flowers in your hair

until there's you and me, honey, at another new creation
watching God set down the needle in the groove.

- - - - - - -- - - - -

For the roses,

Hugh Blumenfeld, Editor
hugh@balladtree.com