If I make every blind decision with open eyes then what the hell is there to worry about,. If all my unforgiveness is rooted in to much past and not enough presence then I better push the clock ahead and get it done,.we don't fly by the seat of our pants unless we're free as screaming kids in playgrounds, and this is why guitars are the perfect nannies for boys and girls who are horny for life in it's most extreme fashion. I am bullet proof to rejection,. i eat rejection, it's my sun tan oil, go ahead and reject me, I'll knock it down like meth- ampheta-steak,.I will win over rejectors and their bullshit comb overs of lack luster truths,.I can't be defeated because I've already WON... HAPPY EVERY YEAR PILGRIMS. 


I blew down the road of a million laughter'sunk into the blue hills of envious banjo hallelujahs,
melted out of the sound holes of delirious inner sanctum slut guitars,
barnstormed on the hoods of radical jaguar Plymouth's in heat,
cocooned with the dames on jackal avenue with screaming thighs,
bled a trillion nights under the tombstone EL stations of arsenic love,
baffled itinerant hobos lying in fever pools praying for quinine,
hunkered beside the bellowing horses of the apocalyptic OK corral,
siphoned blood whisky from the ramshackle tanks of lethal hookers,
underestimated the aggressive vixens of iodine town,
blasted headlong into the mayhem of furious chimpanzee brothels,
sacrificed my picking fingers for a woman named "Joan Razor Tears",
played a guitar made by Satan in the gruesome crypt of Oliver Hardy,
played a guitar made by God in the watch towers of Ebal
danced naked in the tornado's of Siberian leper colony's in Cleveland,
had feuds with murderous mandolin insomniacs in blazing jungle fires,
evacuated starving women from the Island of Kerosene Key,
held Kris Kristofferson in my arms when his fever spiked to 104
wrote so many songs my brain is shaped like a treble Clef,
played so many guitars my hands are shaped like meat viola's,
jammed so many hours my memory has turned into harmonica putty,
lay'd with endless barbarian women and daughters of marauding Huns,
fought with the vandals on the plains of Attila and Lash La Rue,
shot the Lone Ranger dead for stealing my jock strap,
was branded a traitor on the the Island of Borneo in 1624,
had relations with King Tuts grandmother in a pool hall in Brooklyn,
smoked dope with a manikin named Duncan Idaho,
had a recent epiphany about large fish and miniature Shetland ponies,
stormed the gates of the Guggenheim and stole a priceless enema bag,
hung by the neck and came back to life on the outskirts of OZ,
was inducted into the outlaw hall of fame in 2014.


Age is fascinating, a comical miasma eclipsing all physical demographics. Speaking only for men, the head and face of the male species after 70 or 75 years becomes a catchers mitt replica of the once youthful face of 30 or 40, unrecognizable most times but oddly endearing in a rather pre-historic way. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection at 2 or 3 in the morning scuttling in and out of the bathroom, I have a gusty cackle at the fleeting image of the Doofy mug attached to my shoulders that I immediately give some silly deprecating name like IGGY CONATZ, OR SWIFTY BOLICHECK, making me laugh even harder as I collapse back into bed like a terminal grunting mutt. Then of course there's the grooming process that takes place in the 8 or 9 o'clock hours to get the aged husk ready for the day; Oh thats a trip studs and kitties as you well know, to whip and mold like a large lump of baggy clay the meat house into something acceptable that won't sent a passerby screaming down the street in fear and disbelief at what they just saw. OVER DRAMATIC am I ??, Yes !!, a wee bit, but lets face it, life is slap stick, a roaring comedy in which we pretend for a short time we are Gods and Goddesses before our forms become collapsing bags of sallow derma where we spend an inordinate amount of time attempting to mold it into some sort of shape that will last at least one more day.. I have earned every wrinkle, liver spot, dent, scar, defoliation, gimp, limp, hobble, and crooked grin that goes with living like the Troubadour Gypsy King I've aspired to be for 60 years or more with out personal recrimination or chastisement of any sorts, in other words, I happy in my mottled skin, I know who I am, and if I appear to look like a crazed Stork ten years from now, as long as I'm standing there singing my guts out honestly with paramour sincerity, then who cares !! My last record will be called, THE GOLDEN HITS OF GOPHER BOY. :) 




This is the chorus to " THE GHOST OF MUSIC ROW ", a song I wrote and sung at the City Winery last night to the audience. This chorus is in essence what is wrong with the songwriting community in Nashville as compared to the iconic songwriters of the 60's and early 70's before the mom and pop publishers were bought up by the "SUITS" CAUSING the great lyrical freedoms writers struggled so hard to win got flushed down the Pooter hatch and replaced with much of the nonsense we hear on country radio today..If songwriter's woke up this morning and just got a hold of the message in this chorus, there might be some startling newness to the music thats pumped out of the the air waves these years.. It doesn't take much to Be Yourself and listen to the dictates of your own heart instead of the voice and demands of a music culture that is only concerned with the almighty dollar..Why call ourselves "artists" if we aren't brave enough to step out against the norm and try to create iconic works that actually help evolve our culture to a higher standard..Art is not a pancake that we flip over and over in a skillet till it's brown and serviceable,.Art is it's own unique entity with it's own spirit and voice; it doesn't need anyone's approval or validation, if it's created in truth and honesty it will find it's own way like a trickle of water boring through an immense rock..Listen to your heart today songwriters, let it be the voice that tells you a mystery and some unknown secret that no one but you is privy too, let that be your song of this day. Do that, and you will have stepped into the portals of God with a nod from big daddy himself because you have used the gift he gave you in the way it was intended, not living someone else's dream, but living your own.. Be a first rate version of "YOUR DREAM", rather then a second rate version of "SOMEONE ELSE'S".



Chris Gantry

23 hrs · 

Chris Gantry updated his status.
There appeared one day back in the primordial dump of renegade mists, circa 1965, an Italian boy with a black Fishermans cap,..He walked into the office of Buckhorn Music with a twelve string guitar and stayed for a year,..he was never signed or ever fully accepted as one of us,.Why we felt this way about him I'm not quite sure,..he was sort of like a little Robert De Niro type,.very hyper and pushy,..if he captured you in a room or hallway he would pummel you with his songs,.his beautiful unusual songs of reverie for his home state of Minnesota,.songs of trains with ornate diamond wheels and satin coaches,..gorgeous depictions of dew covered landscapes hanging in lavender creamy sunrises splaying over blanched turnpikes that led to sacred temples in coves of pixies and friendly trolls,..women who dashed off on horseback with scoundrels and tattooed Lancelot's belching over terrains of beggars and outraged gorilla's,.young derelict boys with thievery and impenitent lust bursting from their savage testicles with a look of Christ on their faces,..homeless women in burlap shawls who sang like emeralds on dying boulevards in the midst of bombing raids and racial poisonings,.. Fascist men who kidnapped Librarians with troves of of medical books and wept in forbidden dungeons with leper saints who growled and mumbled in dialects of Saracens and Moore's,...Girls with peacock countenances who performed mazurkas by levy's donned in feathered girdles raving about lost moments of lust with effeminate clerks who milked retarded deformed cows who performed catholic baptisms,..Sword wielding impresarios who took down civilizations with Hun like aggressions in ballet slippers on their tiptoes,.. Indentured ridiculous clowns kept captive by illicit African Brujo's in sanitarium's for French parachute instructors who swam in vats of tainted perfume,....This young revolutionary songwriter stalked........ Kris, bucky, and myself in those musty Buckhorn hallways, lacing us with musical themes of battering realities coupled with brilliant captivating melodies,..and you know, as guilty as as the music business I portray that does not tolerate the savant artist,. we in our stupidity ostracized this young composer,..rejected him until he drifted away like fuzz off a flowers crown,...decades later I still repent for my insensitivity and wonder what happened to that boy who called himself, JIM BUIE.


Associations, halls of fame, Halls of Crap, Halls Suck. When we first we're propelled into the wild blue of songwriting, all we felt was the wind beneath us and the big yonder out there to play in with melody and verse...In art, there are those who work in automatic fever pitch for ten billion years, others who dabble, and most who talk a good game. The desire for Recognition seems to be an aphrodisiac.."PLEASE LOVE ME,..BUY MY WARES,.I'AM GREAT TOO,.I WANT MY PICTURE IN THE MUSEAM OF MODERN BOOGIE BOO,.I'M A CUTE PERSON,.I CAN PLAY THE PICCOLO",.C'mon pilgrims,.just write something real , honest, and true,..if you can do this, and do a little work to get it out there, the universe will present something,..something will happen,.but you gotta do a little hustling and a little leg work...Screw the "Hall of Monkey Scat",. just make great art,.love the process,.be a faithful stuart of the muse,.forget glory dreams and bimbo delusional confetti..rising to the top might mean being faithful to the bottom;.The master works might very well be scuttling around down there in the caverns of the holy Goof,.top or bottom means nothing,.what matters is "Can you live with yourself by churning out garbage in order to make a mad dash to the top",..the top of what ??? all that work to get there, and you find out your stranded in PIN HEAD ALLEY.


Thanksgiving,.OK !! As a songwriter what can I really GIVE that means anything in my songs? How about brutal honesty,.like, if I'm overweight can I write about it so it might help other overweight people,.Drug addiction, anger, trouble with the law, sex hang ups,. ?How about JOY,. Can I sing about being in love in a real vulnerable way as a man to exhibit sensitivity and tenderness,.can I sing about the joys of passion that overrides carnality, Can I use language in my songs that touch the unspoken, those little secret things we are terrified to talk about ,.can we honestly sing about God revealing that we really don't know a damn thing about him except what we've been told..Yes!! Let's make it a thanksgiving of honesty,.lets be honest songwriting turkeys..Gobble,.not Gubble.


MEL TILLIS was an omnipresent force in the early cedarwood days when Benny Joy, Kent Westberry, Fred Burch, Jan Crutchfield, Billy Swan and me were charging in and out of John Denny's office ten thousand times a day. Dollie Denny manned the helm And Mary Claire Rhodes and her husband Curly, were the first mates. It was a dynamic musical explosion everyday with hundreds of tunes written in that Cedarwood building each year on 16th ave south in the early 60's. Mel was a skinny stuttering life force who never slept and wrote prodigious bodies of work.. Everybody loved Mel,.I loved Mel,.he was my friend,,I'm sorry he's gone.. He was a fixture in a culture at a glorious time, a face and smile that lit up a universe,.plus, being a great songwriter..see ya Mel !!