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Survey of Traditional Music, Vol. 4: The Anglo​-​African Exchange

by Field Recorders' Collective

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Poor boy, long ways from home (2) Long ways from home and his mama's house And he can't bum a freight back home. Nine hundred miles from home (2) Ain’t got no money, ain't got no friends Ain't got no place to go. Oh darling, sidetrack your man (2) Sidetrack your man and go with me Oh darling, sidetrack your man. Oh darling, you don't love me (2) You love some old rounder, but you don't love me Poor boy that works so hard. Oh darling, you told me a lie (2) You told me more lies than diamonds in the skies Oh darling, I'll never marry you. Oh darling, count the days that I'm gone (2) Count the days I'm gone for it may be long Oh darling, count the days I'm gone.
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Got up this morning, baby, Blues all on my mind Well, I heard that rooster crowing, Lord, the blues was all on my mind. Oh, if you stay out late tonight, baby, Please carry your black dress along If you stay out late tonight, baby, You’d better carry that black dress along 'Cause the devil's going to be your man, honey, Hell'll be your brand new home. Well, I seen that hearse a-coming, Six white horses all in a line Six white horses all in a line They gonna carry me away, baby, To my burying ground. Go dig my grave with a silver spade Go dig my grave, baby, with a silver spade And every ring you can call my name 'Cause I'm going to be gone, gone, baby, A long, long time.
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In the pines, in the pines Where the sun never shines And shiver when the cold wind blows. Little darling, little darling, don’t tell me no lies Where did you stay last night? I stayed in the pines where the sun never shines And shivered when the cold wind blows. The longest train I ever saw Was down that Georgia line The engine passed at eight o'clock And the cab went by at nine. In the pines, in the pines Where the sun never shines And shiver when the cold wind blows.
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The longest train that ever I saw Was leaving Joe Brown’s coal mine That engine was pulling up that Reno Hill Caboose had never left that town. (2) If you say so, I’ll railroad no more Lay down my hammer and come home But the train’s off the track, can’t get it back Fourteen hundred miles from home. (2) Only gal ever I loved Waiting back home for me. [If] I get out of this old jailhouse That’s where I’m going to be On my way back home. With that long steel rail and that short cross tie I’m beating my way back home. Oh, I’m beating my way back home. (2)
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Well, the boat's up the river, won't come down Tell by the way that she's headed, Alabamy bound. Oh, she’s Alabamy bound, boys, Alabamy bound Tell by the way that she's headed, Alabamy bound. Now there ain’t but one thing bothers my mind It's my old Waterbury, she won’t keep time No, she won't keep time, won't keep time It's my old Waterbury, she won’t keep time.
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Hate that train carried my gal from town If I knowed her number, sure flagged her down. Hate that train carried my gal from town. Yonder come my gal, somebody brought her back She’s got her hand in my money sack. And hate that train carried my gal from town.
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I’ve got the blues, I had the blues all day long (2) I love the woman I’m loving, oh, she done caught that train and gone. Well, it’s a mean old fireman, cruel old engineer (2) Take that woman I love, oh, and carried her a long ways from here. I mean that engineer blew the whistle, the fireman toned the bell (2) Well, that woman looked out the window, oh, and did it, “Sam, fare you well.” Well, my mama said she’s reckless and my daddy told me she’s wild (2) Well, it makes me no difference that woman my little angel child. I said, baby, don’t put your love on me so strong (2) ‘Cause your love is like a faucet, woman, oh, you can cut if off and on.
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Green corn, green corn, growing in the garden Sookey pied, sookey pied, come and get your nubbin Get away, calf, or [I’ll] give you a clubbin’ Green corn growing in the garden.
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Well, upstairs, downstairs, out in the kitchen (3) I met an old cook just a-raring and a-pitching, yes sir. Chorus: Hot corn, cold corn, bring along a demijohn (3) Fare you well, my little gal, I’ll meet you in the morning, yes sir. Preacher’s all a-coming, children all a-crying (3) Chicken heads a-wringing and the toenails are flying, yes sir. Children in the beehive, getting all the honey Preacher in the pulpit, taking all the money Aunt Susie shouting and singing for joy Happiest lot of people that I ever saw, yes sir.
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Don’t want to steal or rob But I’m out of a job And my Mandy keeps on nagging all the time, time, time She just keeps on a-nagging all the time. Honey, if you say so I won’t work no more I’ll just lay around your daddy’s all the time, time, time I’ll lay around your daddy’s all the time. Oh, these times are rough Wish I had some snuff And I’d keep my Mandy dipping all the time, time, time I’d keep her brush a-dipping all the time. Times is risky Wish I had some whiskey, And I’d keep my Mandy boozy all the time, time, time I’d keep her good and boozy all the time. For time’s is hard And I’m out of lard And Mandy keeps on nagging all the time, time, time She just keeps on nagging all the time.
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John Hardy married him a loving little wife The dress she wore was blue She threw her arms around Johnny's neck Says, "Johnny, I'll be true to you, poor boy” Says, "Johnny, I'll be true to you.” John Hardy was a-standing in the barroom door So drunk he could not see When the police came and they took him by the arm Says, "Johnny, come and go with me,” poor boy Says, "Johnny, come and go with me.” John Hardy's mother came to him Says, "Johnny what have you done?" "I've killed me a man in the poker game And I'm standing on the barrel of my gun, Lord, Lord I'm standing on the barrel of my gun." "I've been to the east, I've been to the west, I've been this wide world 'round; I've been to the river and I've been baptized, So take me to the hanging ground,” poor boy "Oh, take me to the hanging ground."
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Well, the ugliest man I've ever seen Is a man called John from Bowling Green No hat on his head, no shoes on his feet Always looking for something to eat. Chorus: Lost John, they call him Lost John. Well, he come by my grandpa's house one day Told him that he wanted to stay They asked him what he wanted to eat He said, "Forty-nine biscuits and a ham of meat." Lost John sittin’ on the railroad track Waiting for a freight train [to] come along back. Freight train come along, didn't make a stop You oughta seen Lost John gettin’ on top.
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Early morning in the alley, it sounded like a bulldog bark Must have been old Stackolee shootin’ in the dark Refrain: Bad man, bad man Stackolee. Billy Lyon’s in the barroom, talking to his friends The door it opened, Stackolee walked in. “Oh Stackolee, oh Stackolee, oh please don’t take my life I’ve two lovin’ children and a lovin’ little wife.” “Oh, God‘ll take care of your children and I’ll take care of your wife Stole my John B. Stetson, gonna take your life.”
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Look up, look down that lonesome road Hang down your head and cry. True love, true love, what have I done That you should treat me so? You’ve caused me to walk that lonesome road That I never walked before. The longest train I ever saw Was on the Georgia line The engine went down at six o'clock And the cab went down at nine. The prettiest girl in this wide world Was a-standing on behind The whistle blew and the bell did ring The engine rolled ahead The train did wreck in a mile of town And killed my true love dead. If I had wings like Noah's dove I’d fly to my true love’s door I'd walk the porch from post to post Hang down my head and cry. Look up, look down that lonesome road Hang down your head and cry.
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Said my honey gal went away last night I don’t know what to do ‘Cause every time she goes away She makes me feel so blue. Refrain: It’s all night long, babe, it’s all night long. Said that yellow gal rides [in] an automobile The brownskin do the same Says the jet black woman gets a buryin’ wagon But she riding just the same. Said that yellow gal drinks her whiskey straight The brownskin do the same Said the jet black woman gets a dip of snuff But she gittin’ drunk just the same. I mean it’s all night long Baby, all night long It’s all night long Baby, all night long Said that yellow gal sleeps in a [feather] bed The brownskin do the same Said the jet black woman gets a pallet on the floor But she loves you just the same.
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Riley and Spencer’s burning down Lord, there ain’t no liquor in town. (2) What you going do to wet them lips When this whole darn world goes dry? (2) Now I’ve been all around this whole wide world Lord, I’ve been down in Memphis, Tennessee. (2) I’ve played cards with the king and the queen Shot them dice with old Jesse James. (2) I can eat more chicken than any girl can fry Lord, I’m tellin’ no lowdown lies. (2) Tell more lies than the stars in the skies Now, baby, my time ain’t long. (2) I never loved but one little gal Lord, I’m sorry I ever loved her. (2) She caused me to weep, she caused me to mourn She took my liquor from me. (2) Now I’d stomp down them flowers around my grave But they’ll rise and bloom again. (2) I’d pawn my shoes for a bottle of booze Lord, I’d drink it, I’d lay down and die. (2)
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It's nobody's business how my baby treats me It's nobody's business but my own It's nobody's business, nobody's business It's nobody's business but my own. My gal drives a Ford machine, but my money buys the gasoline It's nobody's business but her own It's nobody's business how my baby treats me It's nobody's business but my own. My gal drives a Cadillac, oh boy, she makes her jack It's nobody's business but her own It's nobody's business how my baby treats me It's nobody's business but my own.
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I thought I heard somebody say, “Funky butt, funky butt, take it away.”
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I went down to Joe’s barroom On the corner of the square A goodly crowd had gathered And the drinks were a-flowing there. I sat down by McKinney His eyes were bloodshot red He leaned to me and whispered And this is what he said: “I went down to the infirmary And I looked in a window there Saw my girl stretched out on a white bed So cold, so pale, so fair. “Sixteen coal black horses Hitched to a rubber-tired hack Took seven pretty girls to the graveyard Only six of them came back. “Six crap shooters for pall bearers And a chorus girl to sing me a song Put a jazz band on my hearse top To sing as I roll along. “Now my story is ended Give me one more drink of booze And I’ll be on my way, boys For I’ve got those gambling blues.”
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It’s Frankie and Johnny was sweethearts Oh, how they did love They swore to be true to each other Just as true as the stars above He was her man, oh lord, but he done her wrong. Frankie went down to the barroom Just for a bucket of beer She asked that barroom tender “Has my loving Johnny been here? He is my man, oh lord, but he done me wrong.” “Frankie, you ought not ask me no questions And I’ll tell you no lies Your loving [man was here] about a half an hour ago With a gal called Nelly Bly He was your man, oh lord, but he done you wrong. Frankie went down to the barroom Had a little white apron on And under that little white apron She carried a forty-four smokeless gun She’s looking for her man, lord, lord, he’d a-done her wrong. And Frankie looked over the transom And she saw to her surprise It’s there on a cot sat Johnny Making love to Nelly Bly He was her man, lord, lord, but he done her wrong. Frankie drew back her kimono And she pulled a little forty-four And rooti-toot-toot three times she shot Right through that hardwood door She shot her man, lord, lord, he’s a-done her wrong. “It’s a-bring around a thousand policemen You can bring them around today You can lock me down in that dungeon cell And throw that key away ‘Cause I shot my man, lord, lord, and he done me wrong.” Frankie said to the warden “What are they going to do?” And the warden he said to Frankie “There’s a ‘lectric chair for you ‘Cause you shot your man, lord, lord, for he done you wrong.” This story has no moral This story has no end This story it just goes to show That there ain’t no good in men “‘Cause I shot my man, lord, lord, for he done me wrong.”
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I'm going to California, where they sleep out every night I'm going to California, where they sleep out every night I'm leaving you woman, you know you don't treat me right. Listen to me, woman, sing you my lonesome song Listen to your daddy sing you this lonesome song Got me wearied now but I won't be weary long Chorus: Got the California blues and I'm sure gonna leave you here Got the California blues and I'm sure gonna leave you here Gonna ride the blinds, ain't got no railroad fare. Listen to me, woman, there’s some things that you don't know Listen to your daddy, there’s things that you don't know I'm a do-right papa, got a home everywhere I go.
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about

Outside of the Preview volume (FRC800), the 15 volumes of this survey focus on specific themes within North American traditional music. The tracks are entirely drawn from the North American Traditions (NAT) collection, recorded between 1972 and 2008, primarily by myself, Lou Curtiss, John Harrod, Morgan MacQuarrie, Gordon McCann, and Gus Meade. Most of these recordings were made in connection with a series of commercial releases by Rounder Records, although much of the present survey has not been previously released in any form. The 16 FRC releases serve both as a guide to the full NAT Research Archive (which is now publicly accessible; see tinyurl[dot]com/NAT-Research-Archive) and as a vehicle for outlining what we have learned about these songs and their position within historical tradition. To this end, Norm Cohen, myself, and others have prepared extensive notes for each volume (see tinyurl[dot]com/NAT-volume-notes).

During the 19th century the modern American musical vernacular became forged through a complex and poorly understood set of interactions between Anglo and African-American subcultures. The North American Traditions group was especially interested in collecting information with respect to these undocumented exchanges, and some of our discoveries are illustrated in this volume.

— Mark Wilson

Extensive album notes are included with this download or may be found at tinyurl[dot]com/V4-NAT-notes.

credits

released August 7, 2023

©2022 Field Recorders’ Collective, Inc. Produced by Mark Wilson and John Schwab. Mastered by John Schwab. All tracks Ⓟ Mark Wilson. Cover photo of Sam Chatmon © Virginia Curtiss. Detailed credits in the accompanying PDF notes, included with this download. Graphic design: Jim Garber. Special thanks to Norm Cohen, Bill Nowlin, and John Harrod.

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Field Recorders' Collective

The Field Recorders’ Collective is a nonprofit organization dedicated to the preservation and distribution of noncommercial recordings of traditional American music, material that is unavailable to the general public.

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