Words
When the guitar leaves Gregg’s hands, he spends his time writing. Here are some samples of songs and articles written by Gregg for pleasure and pay. For your reading pleasure, please visit Gregg’s writing website, www.greggwrites.com
Sample lyrics…
Footwear at a Funeral
by Gregg Morris
Blood-red moon shows the fire in the sky.
I wrestle with the truth, while he prepares to die.
8 hours of highway radio helps to pass the time.
But it’s Papa Staple, singing about Luke, that fills my mind.
It’s just all footwear at a funeral.
But the guest of honor don’t really care at all.
Your 15 cent shine that you got down the line
Won’t carry you home when you fall.
60 years is short enough for the questions in your mind.
36 years is long enough to be careful with what you find.
But Mr. Soul really knows exactly how I feel.
“Helpless in my earphones, helpless for real.
It’s just all footwear at a funeral.
But the guest of honor don’t really care at all.
Your 15 cent shine that you got down the line
Won’t carry you home when you fall.
It’s funny about a gathering of the people that you know.
Neighbors, friends & good friends with best wishes they bring to show.
A collective sigh, a tear in the eye and a low murmur of rest in peace.
And me, I’m in the corner singing, “I Shall Be Released”.
And me, I’m in the corner singing, “I Shall Be Released”.
The Whiskeymaker’s Wife
by Gregg Morris
The Whiskeymaker and his wife
Seem to lead the simple life.
Of taking walks and throwing stones
Working hard and resting bones.
A stones throw from the backwoods
Near the banks of the Mississippi
A Redwood cabin with a dirt brown floor
2 rooms and a family of 3
Daddy was a Freemason
His daddy and his daddy too
The only decree was the 3rd degree
Out of lodge # 642.
Whiskeymaker take my pain away cause
I don’t know what to say or how it got this way.
I know she’s a flower and my loves unsung
She comes on like a bee as I just wait to get stung.
Mama kept her garden growin
With water, love, and care
Hard work shaped her body
While the sun lightened the hair.
Me, I’m a traveling salesman
Just trying to peddle my wares
It won’t be long til I am gone
To some place I call nowhere.
Whiskeymaker take my pain away cause
I don’t know what to say or how it got this way.
I know she’s a flower and my loves unsung
She comes on like a bee as I just wait to get stung.
Blacksmith, the farmer, the baker’s house
He must have passed by them all
Just to stand at the screen door
And watch her walk down the hall
Sevilla, London, Istanbul
They occupied my life.
But none made my heart skip a beat
I’m in love with this country life.
And the Whiskeymaker’s wife.
The Whiskeymaker and his wife
Planned to lead the simple life
Of taking walks and throwing stones
Working hard and resting bones
All good things must come to an end
Ain’t it true for both us and them.
Sample articles…
The Journal – Songwriter’s Best Friend
by Gregg Morris
”The shortest pencil is better than the longest memory,” began my sixth-grade humanities teacher, emphatically. It seemed more like a humble request than a statement or fact. What the preteen version of myself didn’t realize (or care), is that he was speaking directly to the future songwriter in me. It took years of failed quizzes, botched tests, missed appointments, and forgotten birthdays for me to truly understand his plea.
A journal should match the man…
I stumbled upon my current type of journal at a flea market in Portland, Oregon. Now, I have trouble settling for a store-bought, hard-bound, tree-killing journal; one that simply sits on a shelf in a drug store, waiting for any 10 year old girl or soccer mom to grab along with some plastic toy or hair product. I did not choose my journal, my journal choose me!
An oil-tanned leather binding weathers as the year marches on, all the while protecting its contents. Natural-toned hemp, cotton and jute fiber paper takes the ink as if it were drawing blood-soaked ideas directly from my brain.
My thoughts flow through a black felt-tipped pen. I use blue to highlight titles, drawings, or other pertinent points. Every minute detail spills on the page for its most important critic, the writer.
My horrific penmanship, somewhere between a doctor’s script and an epileptic’s scribble, provides a lock to the words. The indecipherable code of personal handwriting ensures privacy. Surprisingly enough, it is a rare occurrence when I am unable to unlock the cypher.
The leather strap holds the pages together and keeps my words from spilling out on the hard sidewalk, grassy field, or any other locale I may inhabit; in body if not mind.
The organic nature of my journal matches the goal of my writing, be it songwriting, poetry, random vents, or combination of the three. While it suits my soul, it is not the only one available to capture thoughts on a page. Different styles match different users. While I try to keep mine with me wherever I may roam, its immeasurable value dictates its need for protection.
I have been known to scribble lyrics on airline cocktail napkins, folded printer paper, and good-old college ruled notebooks. My arm has even served as the vessel. Good thing, too, as those lyrics serve as the chorus to one of my favorite self-penned tunes. I am relatively certain it would not have turned out the same had I relied on my memory.
It starts with an idea…
I once heard an interview with Chris Robinson (Black Crowes, The Chris Robinson Brotherhood) explaining the creative process between him and his songwriting partner and brother, Rich Robinson. I was pleasantly surprised by how Chris takes the parts of songs Rich has written and mixes them up. He swaps verses with chorus and changes riffs to accommodate his singing style. I remember thinking, I do that, too! But, I do it as part of the editing process. Organizationally speaking, I could not begin to rearrange without visualizing the parts in my journal.
When the idea comes, it comes…
While I may be able to sit down and finish ideas in a songwriting session, they rarely start there. Usually, it’s humming a melody in my car, hearing a funny group of words while at the bar, or creative lightning striking while in an airport. These days, my iphone may serve as the riff-catcher, but nothing explains a thought like words on a page.
I recall driving from Bend to Sisters one day, when all of a sudden, creativity sparked. I was elated to look over and see my journal riding shotgun. I ended up pulling off on a side street and writing 90% of the lyrics to a song that is still in constant rotation in my setlist.
Not so long memory…
As I gracefully grow older, I realize my memory is not growing along with my teeth. It’s this realization that allows me to appreciate, and ironically remember, the words from almost three decades ago. I recently ran across those words etched in a notebook my parents had saved. The shortest pencil is truly better than the longest memory. And if those words are important enough to write down, then they are important enough to store in your journal.
Awbrey Butte, After Dark
by Gregg Morris
After the sun makes her encore performance, Jerry and I own Awbrey Butte. That’s not to say we hold the titles to the million dollar feax-craftsman castles that line the ridges, more like we patrol the streets and trails that criss-cross the butte. Working our way down the makeshift trails and empty lots, we set our sights on our primary destination, the River Trail. Catching it at the 1st Street Rapids, Jerry takes off with familiar excitement. Despite our different reasons, the waterfowl and I share a common goal; keeping Jerry out of the river.
The Aussie enthusiasm shines in the waxing moon as he runs with the herds of deer making their home on the 9th fairway of River’s Edge golf course. We catch the River Trail again near Sawyer Park and run it down the river, crossing Archie Briggs road and towards the Archie Briggs trail. After taking in the moonlit views of the cascades on one of the memorial benches placed along the River Trail, Jerry and I head up the butte.
The trail gains 1000 feet before dumping us onto Remarkable Drive. The strolling freedom of our nighttime mansion exploration without the worries of daytime traffic or those pesky Bend leash laws is as relaxing as the hike up the butte was taxing. We take Remarkable Drive to Constellation, cross over the Mount Washington landscaping strip and onto Fairway Heights.
The final leg of our journey is filled with the recent memories of our five mile urban hike. Both Jerry and I seem content we were able to catch many of Bend’s classic landmarks; including views of the Old Mill, Pilot Butte, and the Cascade & Ochoco ranges. Our encounters with deer, waterfowl, and other nocturnal animals remind us of what Bend used to be like before people began to realize all that Bend has to offer…all without having to get in the car.