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I found an old homemade record my uncle may have made.
folk surreal satire
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I've always considered myself folk, but I play an electric guitar, so you figure it out. I'm just a guy with some cheesy equipment. Sheet music really helps me
I'm just an old man recording in a basement. The band is an AdrenaLinn effects and drum machine, some amps and some guitars
Song Info
Genre
Acoustic • Acoustic Folk
Charts
Peak #102
Peak in subgenre #14
Author
Slick
Rights
Slick
Uploaded
November 11, 2015
Track Files
MP3
MP3 8.3 MB • 128 kbps • 9:05
Story behind the song
I found an old homemade record my uncle may have made. The lyrics are the story.
Lyrics
Waub When I was young Just past my father’s knees I pounded on Grandpa’s piano keys Son said Dad You ain’t no Liberace That’s just the way They treated me. Up in the attic Old recording machines Snarled wire And busted tambourines I found an old And dusty case Inside an arch top With a cracked face. I reached out Played some notes Magic danced Amid the dust motes Then my father said From the door. Get out of there Don’t touch those no more All of those are Wilbur’s things Wasted hours And busted dreams Music is the work Of a lazy man I won’t have you Playing with a band. We don’t want you to grow up to be like Wilbur. We don’t want you to grow up to be like Waub My Uncle Wilber Was a mellow blend Every one I knew Was his friend He’d fought the war Called himself just a gob Everyone else Called him Waub But at farming Although he tried He just didn’t Have that much glide “No good at the land? I’m the best Strip farmer In the West I plant it Grasshoppers strip it.” Wilbur was known For his wit But what Wilber Wanted to do Was play guitar And everyone knew Wilbur had been Popular when young Playing with a band Just having fun He went for humor And the easy joke Much of his music Was rooted in folk But there was A sadness in his heart That often goes With that musical spark Times were harsh And unforgiving So Wilber ended up Just making a living Not even Wilber could grow up to be like Wilber Not even my Uncle could just be Waub In High School a teacher Guessed how I felt And sent me home With an autoharp Which I pounded on ‘Til I had some knack Until my parents made Me take it back. At last in college I bought a guitar, But for easy learning Too late by far Not picking it up By ear or look But clumsily learned From music books Then came my war And wife and kids I started over That’s what I did. Sitting down I plucked away Practicing for hours Day after day. Until at last, I got some rhythm. It was like breaking Out of prison. I wrote some songs I sang at fests Going nowhere, It filled a hole, I guess And as time passed My Grand Pa’s tribe Started taking Their final rides. The first was Kenny, In a tractor wreck Then it was Johnny Of a heart attack Poor old Raymond Smoked and smoked And then one day It was all she wrote Then dear old Wilber Gone of a stroke Along with all The funny songs he wrote. And I wished I could be like Wilber. I wished I could be more like Waub Then it was My father who died I choked back my tears Only my mother cried The last to go Was sweet Bernice. At last the family Was at peace After Mother died Leaving us bereft I went through all That she had left And there among The ancient disks Was a record Someone had pressed And the my heart stopped When I heard the noise Of Wilber and “The Beaver Valley Boys.” Through the static And the scratches Came music pure In little patches. The base drum And the mandolin The guitar and The accordion Wonderful music So free and intricate No attempt at jokes Just instruments Just playing With no tricks The blues, ragtime And country mixed. Again a child In the attic I realized My Uncle, he was magic Wilber a joke? Wilbur a failure? Hell no. The man Was a national treasure And no one Ever knew But there was one Thing for sure I never grew up to be like Wilber. I never grew up to be like Waub.
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