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True

by Willie Wisely

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  • Free shipping, direct from Apple. This beautifully bound hardcover folio contains over 70 photos from the "True" sessions, plus the full dramatic story of the band and the making of the "True," and it's insane final track--logging in at over 26 minutes!

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    Based on the exclaimed lyric from "True's" 'National Council of Jewish Women's Thrift Store'. This soft, stretchy cotton tee is totally hip, with a unique heathered, moss-green shirt. Designed by my favorite eccentric John Berry.

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  • Full Digital Discography

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    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Of Candles, We're Keepers (Remote Video Version), Of Candles, We're Keepers, No Surprise EP, Face The Sun, Laurel Canyon Sun Sessions, Parador - 10th Anniversary Deluxe Edition, Cassettarcana, The Man Who Invented The Moon - The Man Who Invented The Moon - Original Film Score, and 15 more. , and , .

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1.
Oh man don’t act so insulted You know she’s smart to the truth Can’t stop the lie once they’re started Kiss her and keep it true Who cares your face got the boot print So high, the price of delight She’s going to give you the rainbow Kiss her and make it right Kiss her and make it right So go and ruin a good thing Go on you won’t get a fight I swear if I weren’t your friend I’d Kiss her and make it right Hard to believe you’d dare let her go So many boys would have died for what you’ve known Kiss her and make it right I say you should be the man now You’ve got the chance to do right And if she shows you the rainbow (grand pause) Kiss her and make it right Hard to believe you’d dare let her go So many soldiers have died for what you’ve known Kiss her and make it right
2.
Dr. Jack 02:56
Well I’m Dr. Jack in a tin-foil suit Bring on the spectators Wax me up and it fits like skin Warm the incubators Well I’m Dr. Jack on the precipice Bring on my investors Bring to me their riches Taste the fruits of my endeavors Cells collide and then divide One of me now two of I Well I’m Dr. Jack and the crowd cheers on Hail to God and science Oh my sweet girl Friday Said she must leave my employ Well I’m Dr. Jack in a custom can Bring on my detractors I’ll eat them all for their vitamins Belch the voice of traitors Cells collide and multiply Two of me times lambda pi Well I’m Dr. Jack in the millennium And I have seen the view And science is for the few
3.
Mule 04:39
I’m a man named Mule without a home The river gives me two directions known I’m a man named Mule without a queen I’d raft upstream to find your swarthy dream I have seen the skies turning green Clouds run blue, sun and moon disagree Brine meets blue, out there on that horize No point on which to fix my Mississippi eyes I have seen your ship out on the rise It comes so near then sinks below the skies So I followed you to Cairo Illinois You knew this man and gave him mooring lines I have seen the skies turning green Clouds run blue, sun and moon disagree Brine meets blue, out there on that horize No point on which to fix my Mississippi eyes I can see the day I broke my knees Two feet towards the town two towards the trees I’m a man named Mule without a queen They’ll drag the riverbed for my remains I have seen the skies turning green Clouds run blue, sun and moon disagree Brine meets blue, out there on that horize No point on which to fix my Mississippi eyes
4.
Everybody pays for their sins someday So you’d better start fearing the lord come Sunday No jumping ship when it goes down No shaking his hand when Jesus comes to town Everybody fears the lord come Sunday Everybody carries something they regret now Burn that bridge once we get to it now No jumping ship when it goes down No shaking his hand when Jesus comes to town Everybody fears the lord come Sunday Come along hell or high holy water No messing ‘round with the preachers daughter No jumping ship when it goes down No shaking his hand when Jesus comes to town Everybody fears the lord come Sunday Everybody fears the lord come Sunday Everybody fears the lord come Sunday
5.
Well I try to be kind then I find that I Lied to hide how I feel So I smile but you know how deeply it goes Low, oh I got it bad I seen you baby, sit stare at the pool You wait till I’m watching you Before you jump in Fool you know you can’t swim, so let it begin The drowning of two I seen you baby, sit stare at the pool You wait till I’m watching you Before you jump in Fool you know you can’t swim, so let it begin The drowning of two The drowning of two
6.
The National Council of Jewish Women’s Thrift Stores That’s where I go to purchase all my clothes I need some pants “These are nice” A little tight in the rear How about a t-shirt that says I’m here I am here I am here The National Council of Jewish Women’s Thrift Store That’s where I go to purchase all my stuff Like this macramé basket Or an old chandelier But I still need a t-shirt that says I’m here I am here Yep still here Farrah Fawcett Coors Light Beer I’m with Stupid The buck stops here My bucks stop here The National Council of Jewish Women’s Thrift Store That’s where I go to purchase all this junk Like this stein from Hamburg but I supposedly gave up beer And I still want that t-shirt that says I’m here Not I’m queer Just here Lee Majors Billy Beer I’m no longer with stupid The buck stopped there World’s greatest grandma 32 Black is beautiful And bark at the moon Meat is murder Jesus saves Just say no And have a nice day Have a nice day I had a nice day
7.
Duration 03:21
Bring me on lassie Take me along We’ll find a canyon Make it our home, make it our home Well bring me ‘long with you now Show me your dreams Bring me to places I ain’t never been to, I ain’t never been I’m in for the duration I’m in for the dura- Take me on down on you crusading mission I’m in for the dura-a-a-tion Take me from body now Show me your mind My life it’s yours So don’t leave it behind, I love your behind, flaughty! Take me from territory Fortress of gold I’ll walk the fences You take the road, I’ll take the road. Chorus…
8.
True 03:31
It’s a short walk down past sidewalk café Where the green line connects with blue It’s hard work singing for strangers all day But I do If my song is good And my rent’s past due Be the echo and ring True It’s a long day under the city of drones But the heat lifts when trains speed by And I can’t hear the string I just played with my thumb But I try If my song is real My weary tune Be the echo and ring True True My song is good You can sing it too Be the echo and ring True, True, True
9.
Low 04:31
Yes I’m down Yes I’m down So incredibly low I couldn’t go no further Less I’d be near underground Yes I’m high Yes I’m high So incredibly up I’s afraid I’d bust a nut So afraid to crack my eyes I’m young & I just don’t care Take me back Free to go I’s away I’s away So incredibly far I parked my car beside the road I walked for days I’m near I’m near Well I’m so incredibly close that the chair that you sit down in Is still warm from my respiring do you feel someone whispering in your ear I’m young & I just don’t care Take me back Free to go Yes I’m good Very good I’m oh so damn delicious that you gotta lick your dishes Come on baby fetch my slippers like you know you should Yes I’m bad Yes I’m bad for you Well I’m so incredibly worse than a drunkard in church Or that pistol in your purse Oh my lady wants to see me riding in a hearse I’m young & I just don’t care Take me back Free to go I’m young & I just don’t care Take me back Free to go
10.
Paid to tally the hours After offices close The bell of St. Kate’s tower Ring over Kensington Row Keeping time with a pencil Tweak up the radio He drums at local pubs and stations He’s in the Kensington Lows And on stage he shines So why’s he always someone’s minion? Rehearsal’s at nine Meet the Kensington Lows Nodding off on the subway To the circle lines drone His pillow, it’s The Times Read on Kensington woes solo And he’s been doing time Counting other peoples’ millions Rehearsal’s at nine Meet the Kensington Lows solo Just a cog in the grind The boss chimed in his opinions “You’re on company time” Not some Kensington dole And he quits in his mind So wracked with indecision Just off Kensington Hyde He’ll play the Kensington lows
11.
Real 03:55
When famine flies land in the face of people And hungry eyes, tell you fate is sealed This might smart a bit No avoiding it It’s not counterfeit… it’s real The ambassadors failed to gain appeals At the backstage door where she finessed the deal No more alibis Broadcast to justify The years we all denied… what’s real Whatcha doing about tomorrow? Nations wiggle out, curmudgeons grudging steel And they whistle a tune of drought, the bodies are revealed It’s no TV show To hell with rock and roll It’s not a vaudeville joke Or extra terrestrial… it’s real You can’t wiggle out With your frown or pout Why don’t you cut it out This here’s all about… real
12.
Surreal 26:26
Guilty from the womb you were torn They kept you ill equipped and uninformed. [United we stand with hand in form] Delusion of those who proffer scorn Upon the hunchbacks, hunchbacks And Hindemith paints a brass parade As locksmith’s tumblers turn cascade And the piano tuner stashes all the loot It’s a suit of loot You’re surreal (That’s one raw (big) deal) You’re surreal Far too cerebral (enhanced appeal) For mass appeal (I want my girls real) You were never much for ironic twists The way the nuns swat at your wrist While sophists pray you get their gist Is that bad for you? Is that bad for you? Well the purse snatch went according to plan The victim himself was a masked man And everybody laughs who was not them [Oh and every laugh’s now is now not them] Quoting stats on Satchel Page Chorus Judging by the sudden loss of blood While sleeping on your rooftop house floods I built this house to float in pairs of two That’s a hint for you. That’s a hint for you. Whoa and losers play that old time riverboat theme As Bix blows the ecumenical reveille And from city hall comes the wire that said simply ‘boo’ Here comes the judge, here comes the judge, judge to judge Chorus Well I think by now you know how leftists rage The sans culottes submit their great complaint And complacent you say the wrong is now right It’s a freight train night. It’s a freight train night. Oh and all the wrong dudes take their bows Stolen from those who actually push the plows A father dreams his son will settle his scores [And fathers dream who would not accomplish more] Come on home from war. Come on home from war ya’ll Chorus And deep inside you covet turbaned dream With windows soaped saying close for remodeling And all the well-wishers wish well upon you Oh the derring do. It’s a derring-do. What once was a shear face of rock Is now a dress shop’s parking lot And everything that was vertical is so blasé When do we animate. We animate. Chorus Hurricane Betsy takes an orthodox hue As Souza fires a picaloed solo flute And every one of those rascally Kaiser krauts Should run like hell. Should run like hell. Oh and Wizard takes a headless form While dealing strip poker in the girl’s dorm While head mistress peaks below the keyhole prone In shock and awe, she amazed, surmised Chorus And Dali paints a ghastly night Ghostly by accounts of those men who write Imagine what we’d do if no one knew What’s red is read. What’s red is read. So often I’ve been called the leather-clad dad Ridiculed by those who ought to forget Well for once wearing my moustache as a hat It sounded good, but felt much better. Chorus And Enoch Light sequesters the light brigade So docents can now lower the pencil cage And all the folly of Paris string band foam It’s made of glue. Peter, it’s made of glue. So into the fray we gaily gadfly leap With a single pair of tweezers to clog the leak Coyly placing every eyebrow ever plucked On the BBQ. On the BBQ. Hell. Chorus I’d like to thank the forerunners fomenting yeoman’s grief Admit he cannot help everyone in need The fat is his own ignoble steed That’s a trick for you. That’s a trick for you. As the penny post cards demands a raise in pay cash While Cleopatra straightens up her asp My Girlfriend’s toupee pipes up “relax” A pair of cockatoos, pair of cockatoos. Chorus Igniting coarse comeuppance conch shells sing “Of thee I do” the velocoraptor screams And all the iceberg lettuce you could husk Is now a mask for you. Is now a mask for you. Oh the rooster quits his day job weather vanes Adoring plums that sit upon the counterpane Into the sea is thrown compressed propane That’s tea overboard boys, tea overboard. Chorus The bandstands play a sound heretofore unknown As Macbeth’s favorite play swordfish trombone And everyone worth knowing becomes a clone Turn off your phones. Did you turn off your cell phones? Well the manufacturers rep sings violent night Hello she chirps you look like the silent type And suddenly an eggshell cracks on your head You hear it moan. Fly on home. You’re surreal Far too surreal Far too cerebral I like my girls real Ho Chi Mien says lady that’s a wrap As every pro and con takes a victory lap Reminding us all for things we lack That’s apocryphal wit for you. Your thoughts subdued. Oh the Beatles reunite for one last jam And it stinks but we love it cause it’s them And his wife sends a postcard from Siam That’s so untrue. That’s so untrue. Chorus Magnificent corpse hogs oxygen room And rises from the chair as Claire de Lune The salad forks go outside of the spoon Where were you born? Where were you born? Crunching rocks became a parlor game Of every well-mandibled chap with two first names The philatelic exhibit forecasts rain Stamps stick together. Stamps stick together. Chorus So I said, “chewing gum says he’ll break the picket line.” While bruiser fills his fists with copper coins And baby coddle fish all you could eat Is cooked in bleach. Cooked in bleach. Beehivers prone to misbehave Discover all there siblings lost in caves But telephone lines crawl up the walls It’s Minnesota in fall. That’s right ‘cuz Chorus Atop the canyon appears a golden cask As Cindy tells her editors we’ve been attacked And moaning widows rake the fury peak In hiccup speak, hiccup speak And all the while a ragged rainbow tell Saran wrap filled with aloe gel Squirting which begat the horseman’s saddle sore swell It’s the name of Dog. What’s the name of that Dog? ‘Cuz he’s surreal, Doug You’re too surreal, Doug Far too cerebral For mass appeal There’s never been a philosopher named Doug. Alright hold tight. Raisin puckers up to kiss the bride But a rancher has his birdie strung too tight And there’s no here getting out alive That’s what Jim says, yeah Upside-down the cushion looked so clean But right side up the chair became a guillotine Yeah and every head he’s had the pleasure to know Just let it roll baby, jellyroll Chorus Get back on it, get back on it. A fortnight came smarty pants since was wed And nothings quite been the same ever since you left Since when did ebb & tide stop up the flow And cause the flu. And cause the flu. And as circumstance would have it there we part You drove away your europena buggy cart With your head bloviating performance art I’m done with you. I’m done with you, ‘Cuz Chorus The see through nighty you’ve bought and always loved Grew a butler’s pantry and tonsil gloves For wearing once per year in my parade For no one else. And no one was saved Prairie reclamation you purport Will bring all the queens ship safely to port And instinct never wore on you too well. It all peels off. It all peels off, ‘cuz Chorus Inside our hearts we always knew what’s true Rarely thought did we let it guide what we’d do But life is noting you’d pretend to ever control Check my bank account. Check the bank account. Well from the Poconos to Des Moines we tore the land And rock-n-roll was young, ya’ll be damned But we were four and yeah four were we Hey guys, it’s a symphony, it’s a symphony. Chorus Jelly smeared across the pizza pie What 3 year old ordered this and why? For to be passed on all through out the land Don’t pinch my gland. Don’t pinch my gland. Lester frowns his hair till he escapes Then falls on his own shovel mending drapes While turkeys call it a spokesmen to you Forgotten tongue. Forgotten tongue. Forgotten tongue. Forgotten tongue. Forgotten tongue. It’s Kwanza! Dance! Lothario comes before the panel’s judge It’s not to late to parry, tart & lunge And just because it tickled when you cough You can fake your death. Hey fake your death. And Jones writes for Harpers Bazarr Digest Dangling gorgeous lies off his chest A mobile memorially military consequence Trumps murder now. Trumps murder now. Chorus The ruffian combs a five-foot pompadour Conscribe the whole affair to stevedores Who rules the drainage pipes where you lived Give proper flow. Give proper flow. And underground the lonesome jailbird sings In comes another thief dressed in chains And all the untrue I’m an innocent man Yes I am. Yes I am. You’re surreal Far too surreal I like my girls real For mass appeal I want to hear Greg. Where’s Greg? Wash your hands and hide a broken heart shade Ammonia guarantees a cocktails made When the fuzz broke in and busted up the door You’re flat on the floor. Flat on the floor. Cancer might become what gets you in the end Or the end may pass you by, taken for a friend Well there’s no guessing yet which diver has the Bens Just make it up. Just make it up. Chorus The stranger Italian straightens up his suit We actually heard dirty words say “poof” Madame he was always a thunderous roar Now his throat is sore. Now his throat is sore. Chinese herbs say, “No cure won’t count you.” From Saigon to Pyongyang they spoke the truth Monsoon loves a deep-sea scroll They cheer for you. They cheer for you, ‘cuz Chorus One more. What happened to the trombone? What happened to the trombone Albert? He’s got a cleft palette. Willa Beatrice sure looks sad The paint job on her rocket ship turned out drab Mortified Chaucer goes ribald It’s a free for all. It’s a free for all And Günter Grass has a booth down at the mall. An attic full of reds and alcohol And Ayn Rand with her collection of shrunken heads. Motionless. Motionless. Motionless. One more time. Chorus

about

18 years after playing their final gig, the original Willie Wisely Trio reunite for a new album & tour dates. "True" captures the enduring chemistry of this road-warrior band, giving fans their most wild-eyed album yet. If Grandma Moses could rock'n'roll, she would've sounded like this.

Laser Surgery & The Perfect Mirror

As road warriors in the early 1990′s, the four original members of the Willie Wisely Trio cut our teeth, playing over 400 gigs, across four years, and a couple hundred thousand miles. We climbed mountains together, musically, geographically and personally. Now, almost two decades after breaking up, well into our forties, little in our contemporary lives can approximate the experience of couch-surf touring. Back then, the road was more of a wilderness––before cell phones, before navigation systems, before email, and (in the case of our old van) before functional AC, before cassette decks were standard equipment, and (it seemed) before rust proofing. Oh yeah, and before vegetarians were allowed to cross over the state line into Iowa.

The real “work” of the music career was the time spent lugging amplifiers; suffering the theft of suitcases; playing to empty clubs; putting the moves on girls just to avoid sleeping in the van; or even sleeping underneath the van on a snowy night, trying to stay warm from the residual heat of the engine block. Misery was most the career. The forty-five minutes on stage was your remuneration––Lord knows it wouldn’t come in the form of cash.

So, when I approached Peter Anderson (drums), James Voss (upright bass) and Greg Wold (trombone) in late 2006 about recording and maybe playing again I wasn’t banking on their enthusiasm. And though it took a year to organize recording sessions, and a few more for the gigs, it seems that the importance of those freaky times, back when time was for killing, meant more to each of us than I expected.

We started recording “True” (or “Rosewood,” as it was originally called) in January of 2007 at Flowers Studio in South Minneapolis, with Flowers Studio producing. The basic tracks were made in a marathon of live recording, always with at least the bass and drums playing simultaneously. We wanted to stay true to the routine we’d established during our first recording sessions back in 1989, deep in the basement of Delisi’s Bar, in Nordeast. It was then that we first recorded “Mule” and “Low” on a 4-track cassette deck, with the rhythm section playing live to a pre-recorded guitar take. This freed me up to engineer, and to carefully place microphones so that we would get the most out of our lo-fi recording gear. The guitar take would usually be my only attempt at the performance because many of our songs defied click tracks. Whether flawed or not, the guitar take was final once we recorded drums and bass on it. The sessions for “True”, twenty years on, had the benefit of modern technology, but we felt obliged to engage the old work mode.

Later in 2007, we held more sessions, primarily to overdub trombone and euphonium. Greg scowled at this work. He hadn’t played much in 15 years and getting his lip back while we all watched and scrutinized was a challenge. His self-loathing was frightening. It made me feel bad for awakening this reluctant monster in him. Strangely he kept stepping back to the microphone, sentimentally expressing his love for all of us. It was a reminder of the deep impression our years together had left.

In 2009 the project went dormant, because my singing voice was being consumed by a chronic sore throat. Many doctors, many dietary changes, many alternative treatments later, it continued to worsen. Creating accurate pitch became impossible. In desperation, convinced I’d never sing again, I insisted we start mixing. But the tracks weren’t fully baked and I wasn’t in any condition to be driving the process.

By early 2010, doctors would diagnose a hematoma on my right vocal cord. Knowing that the problem might be fixable with surgery gave me enough faith to finish overdubs, adding DJ Bonebrake of the band X on concert bells, vibraphone and marimba; Andy Sullivan on banjo; and Robert Russel on sax. Still, in the back of my head, the project was a requiem for my dissipated voice. Without my former self, there was no longer a compulsion to sing or play or write. It physically hurt too much. Emotionally, it wracked me as though I’d been the victim of a crime. So with a growing sense of futility, but yet a compulsion to complete our swan song, we finished overdubbing at my studio in Laurel Canyon; at Tuft’s Mansion a bed and breakfast in Neillsville, WI; and a cabin in Luck, WI.

Later in 2010, after dropping three songs, the mixing process began, halting on many occasions as I struggled to care. Our mixer Chuck Zwicky held steady as I again and again requested changes. Each song, except the 27 minute long “Surreal,” went through ten different versions. Chuck was a saint, as the mixing process dragged on for a year and a half, or more, but would eventually end.

Now, with the vocal cord surgery almost a year past, there’s a desire to make music again––despite a chunk of uncontrollable notes in the tenor range. Many songs on “True” will never again be sung in the way I did them in the studio. That’s a frightening mortal reminder.

In 2011, for a spate of 18-year reunion shows, I figured out ways to sing, avoiding the weak ranges. Strangely, the more I pushed the voice to hoarseness, the more it came back. Inflammation around the scar tissue from the laser surgery helped to flatten the vocal cord surface, giving me back some pitch control that I thought was gone forever.

We added a lot of back catalog to the reunion sets, re-learning old tricks from over 100 vintage board tapes (see the album “Turn Up the Suck“). Clearly hearing who we were two decades ago was startling. We didn’t recognize our selves and the parts we played. Plus many of the old licks don’t come naturally any more because new musical ideas demand to be heard. During rehearsals, our growth as players and human beings illuminated how our time together had shaped us. Music vividly evokes the past and simultaneously pushes you forward.

Making music is a tough road, but it’s a perfect mirror when you see those ancient reflections of yourself in the performances. The goofy lyrics (the likes of which you’ll never write again); the improbable and impossible-to-play guitar licks; the over-enthusiastic tempos; and the guileless ambition of living in a van, are a challenge to reproduce. But the summer reunion gigs proved that we will never wrestle that weird naiveté from our hearts. We were four young men, convinced that no one in the world could do what we were doing. We were right.

There are a thousand assumptions and delusions that compel a hard-working band to do the crazed stuff they do. All that energy leaves a footprint on the consciousness of those who make the noise as well as on those who listen to it. As the opening track on “True” exclaims: “Too bad your face got the boot print / so high, the price of delight.”

credits

released March 27, 2012

Peter Anderson: drums/percussion
James Voss: upright & electric bass/backing vocals
Willie Wisely: vocals/guitar/percussion/piano
Greg Wold: trombone/euphonium/trumpet

Andy Sullivan: banjo, Moog synthesizer
DJ Bonebrake: marimba, vibraphone, concert bells
Ed Ackerson: electric guitar track 7
Robert Russel: saxophone
Benno Nelson: backing vocals tracks 2 & 4

Engineered by Ed Ackerson, Peter Anderson, Willie Wisely, also Andy Sullivan, Ken Chastain, Jim Rickard
Recorded at Flowers Studio (Minneapolis)
Mastered by Chuck Zwicky
Art by Japa

Produced by Willie Wisely & Ed Ackerson
Mixed by Chuck Zwicky
Written by William John Wisely Jr. (Wisely Publishers ASCAP) except track 4 by William John Wisely Jr., James Benno Nelson & Michael H. Ruekberg (Wisely Publishers ASCAP/National Dynamite Music ASCAP/Acrimony N Cheese Music ASCAP), and track 6 by William John Wisely Jr. & Andy Dick (Wisely Publishers ASCAP/Pollywog Sounds Publishing Company BMI)

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Willie Wisely Saint Paul, Minnesota

Equal parts Minnesotan music scene veteran and Laurel Canyon resident/devotee, Willie Wisely remains that rare bird mixing profound power pop with arena-sized showmanship, a troubadour on an all night rave up, a cold kombucha on a hot California day, a McCartney-ite taking a break from his Japanese import of “Ram” for a quick Canyon run listening to João Gilberto. ... more

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