freedom hangs like heaven over everyone

Red Fence, Dublin, VA

I just stumbled across Brian Harnetty's berea collections project: 24 images paired with sound recordings (laughter, banjo tunings, singing, radio spots, etc.) from berea college's appalachian folk music archives. It's well worth checking out. Harnetty's cd American Winter also sounds interesting; here are the liner notes:

In 2005, Brian Harnetty became one of the first Appalachian Music Fellows trained by the Berea College Appalachian Music Fellowship Program to gain access to the college's enormous archives. AMERICAN WINTER is a painstakingly compiled collage of overlapping samples augmented by modern instrumentation and post-modern aesthetics. The listening experience is elegiac, beautiful, and utterly unique; with a completely original mix of sounds as old as the hills, undiscovered shards of Americana, and meditative modern drones and shimmers. Perfect for fans of adventurous folk music, serious experimentalism, and aural pastiche.

Walking down Main Street, gettin' to know the concrete

B+O Furniture, Hinton, WV

--poems from Campbell McGrath

Two Songs

1. North Carolina

The more you allow the figures of black, silent trees
glimpsed by night from the window of a train near
Fayetteville into your heart, the greater the burden you
must carry with you on your journey, and the sooner
you will come to question your ability to endure it,
and the stronger your conviction to sing.

2. Tiger

A tiger on our block, a real tiger, ivory and mallow orange,
coiled and sinewed, caged in the back of a pickup truck
in the driveway of the house of the two marriedmodels who
live three doors down, for a fashion shoot. These things happen
in Miami Beach. Beautiful, they are, beautiful animals.
Six months later she leaves him. And the sound of his rock and
roll band now, in the empty house, at all hours, practicing.

Two Poems for Frank O'Hara

1.

Tonight the clouds resemble French surrealists
soft and electric and hot to the touch
hustling north from the New York Public Library
as if to grab the lease of the vacant apartment on E. 49th Street
Frank O’Hara rented for $31 a month in 1952.
Poor clouds. They have no sense of time
and no one has told them about the market system
and, being French, the plane trees in Bryant Park
have filled their beautiful heads
with a lightning storm of longing for Paris.

2.

The School of O’Hara was like the School of Hard Knocks
only less so a school of tickles a school of muffled taps
a school of mittened hands at the piano assaying Rachmaninoff.
All in all Frank was a pretty good teacher he mostly taught
geometry mostly because of his fondness for Pi.
What could be more beautiful than Pi he often said to us
his faithful students who loved him dearly and not least
for a cognac stain in the shape of Delaware Bay on his collar
clearly visible in the light through the windows he threw open
those mornings to the cool clatter of city buses
and the pomp of geraniums potted in rusty cans along the sill
o! what could be more ruthless and beautiful and true
than a science built upon an indeterminable constant?

Son Volt "Tear Stained Eye" (a great song from another album I listened to repeatedly while driving the backroads of West Virginia)

in 27 years i've drunk 50 thousand beers & they just wash against me like the sea into a pier.

Bluefield, WV

The Moon
--David Berman

A web of sewer, pipe, and wire connects each house to the others.

In 206 a dog sleeps by the stove where a small gas leak causes him
to have visions; visions that are rooted in nothing but gas.

Next door, a man who has decided to buy a car part by part
excitedly unpacks a wheel and an ashtray.

He arranges them every which way. It’s really beginning to take
shape.

Out the garage window he sees a group of ugly children
enter the forest. Their mouths look like coin slots.

A neighbor plays keyboards in a local cover band.
Preparing for an engagement at the high school prom,

they pack their equipment in silence.

Last night they played the Police Academy Ball and
all the officers slow-danced with target range silhouettes.

This year the theme for the prom is the Tetragrammaton.

A yellow Corsair sails through the disco parking lot
and swaying palms presage the lot of young libertines.

Inside the car a young lady wears a corsage of bullet-sized rodents.
Her date, the handsome cornerback, stretches his talons over the
molded steering wheel.

They park and walk into the lush starlit gardens behind the disco
just as the band is striking up.

Their keen eyes and ears twitch. The other couples
look beautiful tonight. They stroll around listening
to the brilliant conversation. The passionate speeches.

Clouds drift across the silverware. There is red larkspur,
blue gum, and ivy. A boy kneels before his date.

And the moon, I forgot to mention the moon.

Silver Jews, "Trains Across the Sea"

Even London bridge has fallen down, and moved to Arizona

fire department water slide, Hinton, WV

Back in January, Kentucky poet Maurice Manning visited Radford and spent an evening at McConnell library sharing a few of his poems. For whatever reason I didn't attend, but his reading is one that I genuinely regret missing. His latest book, Bucolics, is a series of 70 unpuncuated, lyrical poems held together by a single voice, a shepherd addressing a higher power that he calls "boss." Part of what I like about the poems is that, while they could be called "Appalachian" poetry, they aren't self-consciously Appalachian. I'm not completely sure what I mean by that. I suppose what I mean is that some poetry consciously sets out to be the kind of Appalachian lit. that gets taught in universities. To his credit, Manning's poetry goes beyond that. The poems are firmly rooted in the earth, in the specifics of place, but they address questions, concerns, and a general wonder at the mystery of life that can't be tied down to any single region. Fellow poet Andrew Hudgins described the poems as a "seamless and utterly contemporary melding of Virgil, Hesiod, the Bible, folk songs, labor songs, and God knows what all else into something new and wonderful."

I like the poems. The only issue I have with them is the repeated use of the word "boss." In a way, it works; it evokes a higher power without calling up all the trappings of organized religion, and it's suitably ambiguous to refer to more than one kind of boss. My problem with it is that I associate the constant use of the word "boss" with Bo, a man I worked with several years ago at New River Trail State Park. I usually worked alone, either mowing the bottoms next to the river or--if they couldn't find anything else for me to do-- trimming a 30 year growth of assorted weeds and vines from a random snaky hill. Ocassionally, they'd pair me up with Bo to build a fence or paint a shed or something. He was a nice guy, almost too nice, and part of his reportoire of niceness involved calling every man boss (it's not a big deal, really; I'm not sure why it bothered me). I guess I could have told him to stop, it bugged me, but I never did. It would've been like telling him the shape of his head bugged me. Although he was 30 years my senior, every sentence was "well, boss, if you don't mind we're going to cut the angle like this..." or "all I have is an 8th grade education, boss, I'll leave it up to you." I guess it was his way of appearing diplomatic; he usually did things the way he had planned, but he liked to call people boss to suggest they were in control and that he was open to anything.

All of this is neither here nor there, except when I read Manning's poems from Bucolics, I see Bo sweeping up the floor of the workroom where we kept the time clock, winking at me and saying something like, "hey, boss, there's some biscuits in the office" or "what'dya think of that pretty little girl, boss." It's a hard vision to reconcile with Manning's poetry.

3 poems from Bucolics.

III

the night is trotting toward me Boss
as if you tapped it with a switch
or clicked your tongue against your teeth
it's coming down the pasture soon
I'll hear the leather tackle squeak
I'll see your ankle swinging in
the stirrup Boss you ride the night
but you don't need to hurry no
you've been this way a time or two
before you've hauled your wagon full
of stars it's all old hat for you
you get here when you get here O
I guess you like the same old thing
it's funny but I like it too
I like it when you ride the night
across the sky as if it were
a nag a worn-out horse you don't
mind riding O you get along
your horse is made of silver Boss
it clips like sleep it clops like you

LIX

when I see the shadow of the hawk
but not the hawk itself do you know
what it feels like Boss a stone a stone
set on my chest it weighs me down
it's stronger than the horse's strain
against the plow lines Boss it's like
the river after rain I can't
hold back the pull the pull that makes
me like its heft I even like
the shadow's tiny yoke O Boss
I feel its curve around my neck
I see a flap of wings so black
it binds me to the furrows Boss
a shadow smarter than the sting
of a switch though it is lighter than
a feather though it is thinner than
a leaf that shadow stone is one
of many wonders Boss for all
the world it makes me think of you
you heavy thing you never move

XLVII

I put my face against
the horse's shoulder Boss
I breathed into the frost
so white upon his coat
I saw the patch I left
a darker spot as dark
as darkness gets I let
the horse cut through the field
the spot was looking out
an empty eye unblinking
unblinking Boss which one
of us was that supposed
to be O was it you
so steady Boss or was
that patch of empty me

Marcus heard on the radio that a movie star was dying. He turned the tuner way down low, so Hortense could go on sleeping.

Colonial Theatre, Bluefield,WV

I wanted to post a few ee cummings poems today, but blogger aligns everything on the left, and I didn't want to mess up cummings' typography. So, if you feel like reading some cummings--which i highly recommend--go here. I wanted to post "Buffaloe Bill's defunct," "it may not always be so; and i say," "my girl's tall with hard long eyes," "my mind is," and "since feeling is first," but most everything is good.

If anyone can tell me how to keep blogger from left-justifying everything, it would be much appreciated.

Phil Ochs singing "Joe Hill"...i couldn't find a video for "Jim Dean of Indiana."

I cut off my hair and I rode straight away for the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong

rabbit tracks, Ellett Valley, VA

Deer Hit
--Jon Loomis

You're seventeen and tunnel-vision drunk,
swerving your father's Fairlane wagon home

at 3:00 a.m. Two-lane road, all curves
and dips--dark woods, a stream, a patchy acre

of teazle and grass. You don't see the deer
till they turn their heads--road full of eyeballs,

small moons glowing. You crank the wheel,
stamp both feet on the brake, skid and jolt

into the ditch. Glitter and crunch of broken glass
in your lap, deer hair drifting like dust. Your chin

and shirt are soaked--one eye half-obscured
by the cocked bridge of your nose. The car

still running, its lights angled up at the trees.
You get out. The deer lies on its side.

A doe, spinning itself around
in a frantic circle, front legs scrambling,

back legs paralyzed, dead. Making a sound--
again and again this terrible bleat.

You watch for a while. It tires, lies still.
And here's what you do: pick the deer up

like a bride. Wrestle it into the back of the car--
the seat folded down. Somehow, you steer

the wagon out of the ditch and head home,
night rushing in through the broken window,

headlight dangling, side-mirror gone.
Your nose throbs, something stabs

in your side. The deer breathing behind you,
shallow and fast. A stoplight, you're almost home

and the deer scrambles to life, its long head
appears like a ghost in the rearview mirror

and bites you, its teeth clamp down on your shoulder
and maybe you scream, you struggle and flail

till the deer, exhausted, lets go and lies down.

2
Your father's waiting up, watching tv.
He's had a few drinks and he's angry.

Christ, he says, when you let yourself in.
It's Night of the Living Dead. You tell him

some of what happened: the dark road,
the deer you couldn't avoid. Outside, he circles

the car. Jesus, he says. A long silence.
Son of a bitch, looking in. He opens the tailgate,

drags the quivering deer out by a leg.
What can you tell him--you weren't thinking,

you'd injured your head? You wanted to fix
what you'd broken--restore the beautiful body,

color of wet straw, color of oak leaves in winter?
The deer shudders and bleats in the driveway.

Your father walks to the toolshed,
comes back lugging a concrete block.

Some things stay with you. Dumping the body
deep in the woods, like a gangster. The dent

in your nose. All your life, the trail of ruin you leave.

You know some people have no choice, they can never find a voice to talk with that they can even call their own

Marilyn Poster, former B+O Furniture, Hinton, WV

Poverty of Mirrors
--Sherman Alexie

You wake these mornings alone and nothing
can be forgiven; you drink the last
swallow of warm beer from the can
beside the bed, tell the stranger sleeping
on the floor to go home. It's too easy

to be no one with nothing to do, only
slightly worried about the light bill
more concerned with how dark day gets.

You walk alone on moist pavement wondering
what color rain is in the country.
Does the world out there revolve around rooms
without doors or windows? Centering the mirror
you found in the trash, walls seem closer
and you can never find the right way

out, so you open the fridge again
for a beer, find only rancid milk and drink it
whole. This all tastes too familiar.

Lou Reed & John Cale "Berlin" 1972

death to everyone is gonna come, and it makes hosing much more fun

Rt. 460, between Pearisburg and Narrows, VA

The Road's End
--Rolf Jacobsen (trans. Robert Bly)

The roads have come to their end now,
they don't go any farther, they turn here,
over on the earth there.
You can't go an farther if you don't want
to go to the moon or the planets. Stop now
in time, and turn to a wasp's nest or a cow track,
a volcanoe opening or a clatter of stones in the woods--
it's all the same. Something else.

They won't go any farther as I've said
without changing, the engine to horseshoes,
the gear shift to a fir branch
which you hold loose in your hand
--what the hell is this?

Milkweed
--James Wright

While I stood here, in the open, lost in myself,
I must have looked a long time
down the corn rows, beyond grass,
the small house,
white walls, animals lumbering toward the barn.
I look down now. It is all changed.
Whatever it was I lost, whatever I wept for
was a wild, gentle thing, the small dark eyes
loving me in secret.
It is here. At a touch of my hand,
the air fills with delicate creatures
from the other world.

Differences
--Ray Young Bear

coughing up blood
before the sun rose.

i spit out the wind
and all turns into
what might be expected
on a rainy day. sleep.

i dreamed of an animal
with its teeth shining
so greatly...

and we have heard from
each other once or twice.
we seek to see who is god.

Bonnie "Prince" Billy "Horses" (Greatest Palace Music version)...I couldn't find a good video for "Death to Everyone"

I was raised in a pit of snakes, blink your eyes I was raised on cakes

60 something Plymouth Fury, Rich Creek, VA

Bunch Grass #37
--Robert Sund

The ranchers are selling their wheat early this year, not holding it over for a better price in the Spring. Next year the government lifts restrictions on planting, and nobody is sure what will happen when wheat grows "fencerow to fencerow." This morning another man has come out from the Grain Growers to help us out. John and I haven't got time to cooper boxcars and handle trucks too.

At lunch time, he takes his carpenter's apron off and sits on a grain door in the shade of the boxcar, resting before he eats. I go out to join him and notice a Bible resting on the ledge under the rear window of his car. He says he doesn't read it much, and because he is anxious not to appear narrowly Christian, I want to know more about him. He is sixty-five, about to retire; a lonely man, it seems. There is something unspoken in him. His eyes squint to keep out the bright sunlight falling now just where the boxcar's shadow stops. I say, "There's one thing in Mark that has always puzzled me." He turns to face me, and I continue. "Where Jesus says, To them that have shall be given, and from them that have not shall be taken away. That always seemed cruel to me, but since the verb hasn't got an object (have what? have not what?) if you supply an object, it's really alive. Love. Money. Intelligence. Curiosity. Anything."

In the bleached countryside of his mind, suddenly a new season washes over; common plants begin to blossom. And now, ideas fly back and forth between us, like bees, their legs thickening with pollen.

In the next hour we talk a lot and I learn that he has been reading Rufus Jones, Meister Eckhart, and The Cloud of Unknowing. He nearly trembles with a new joy he kept hidden. His wife wrotes poetry, he tells me, and adds--thrusting years recklessly aside--"I've worked here sixteen years, one harvest to another. I've seen a lot of young men come and go, and never had a decent conversation. It's worse with college kids. They don't think, most of them."

Trucks start coming in again, lunch is over. He puts his carpenter's apron on again, but before we part he invites me home to dinner this evening, careful not to spoil it by appearing as happy as he really is.

Back inside the elevator, I'd like to lie down somewhere in a cool, dark corner, and weep. What are people doing with their lives? what are they doing?

say a word for ginger brown, he walks with his head down to the ground

Ronceverte, WV

--2 poems by john berryman

Dream Song 4

Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken páprika, she glanced at me
twice.
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying
'You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry's dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance.' I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni.--Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls.

--Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast . . . The slob beside her feasts . . . What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
--Mr. Bones: there is.

Dream Song 14

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,

Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.

youtube video for Velvet Underground's Oh! Sweet Nuthin', one of the songs I was listening to while driving around in WV

I'm prepared to do whatever it takes for temporary brother sisterhood

Mural, Bluefield, WV

--two poems by Frank O'Hara

Why I Am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

For Grace, After a Party

You do not always know what I am feeling.
Last night in the warm spring air while I was
blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't
interest
me, it was love for you that set me
afire,

and isn't it odd? for in rooms full of
strangers my most tender feelings
writhe and
bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand,
isn't there
an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside
the bed? And someone you love enters the room
and says wouldn't
you like the eggs a little

different today?
And when they arrive they are
just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather
is holding.

Smog (Bill Callahan) "Butterflies Drowned in Wine"

It's Valentine's day, and I'm catatonic

Plastic Flowers in Thrift Store Window, Bluefield, West Virginia

Well, not quite catatonic...but I have had a nasty case of the flu for several days. I started getting sick Friday night, and I've been through various stages since then: first bone shattering sneezes and a fever, then coughing and congestion, and now congestion and a sinus infection. For the last couple days, I've also had an odd ringing in my ears, something like lying down beneath a railroad bed or a freeway, a sort of dull roar followed by the high-pitched sqeaul of metal on metal.

When I started typing a few minutes ago, I planned a longer post--something about how I drove to Princeton and Bluefield, WV last Saturday and took some photos despite a fever, cold chills, etc. Now that I'm typing, though, I'm finding that I don't really have any desire to set my muddled thoughts in order. Maybe more later.

In any case, here's a video someone made to go along with Palace Music's "Valentine's Day," the song I borrowed today's post title from.

Valentine's Day

I don't speak well, I mumble, to life's little tragedies

Bluefield, WV

A Story About the Body
--Robert Hass

The young composer, working that summer at an artist's colony, had watched her for a week. She was Japanese, a painter, almost sixty, and he thought he was in love with her. He loved her work, and her work was like the way she moved her body, used her hands, looked at him directly when she made amused or considered answers to his questions. One night, walking back from a concert, they came to her door and she turned to him and said, "I think you would like to have me. I would like that too, but I must tell you I have had a double mastectomy," and when he didn't understand, "I've lost both my breasts." The radiance that he had carried around in his belly and chest cavity--like music--withered, very quickly, and he made himself look at her when he said, "I'm sorry. I don't think I could." He walked back to his own cabin through the pines, and in the morning he found a small blue bowl on the porch outside his door. It looked to be full of rose petals, but he found when he picked it up that the rose petals were on top; the rest of the bowl--she must have swept them from the corners of her studio--was full of dead bees.

youtube video for Lambchop's "Is a Woman"

there's no rhythm in your fall, there's nothing to dance to at all

Bluefield, West Virginia

--3 poems by Frank Stanford

Would You Like To Lie Down With the Light On and Cry

My nights are like valleys
Where the night falls soon
And the mist rises early.

The work I do is not easy,
But it is not bad.

When the white barns of the afternoon
Are dark and quiet
With their wasps and snakes
I wonder why we lie to one another:

Spots on the aged
Are called little flowers of the cemetery,
On the young they are marks
Left by the teeth of beauty.

The dying
Clutch their genitals
And shake like trestles
When the locomotive of death passes by,
And lovers
Like their trains
In the trembling bridges of their beds.

When no one is looking
We touch the thin underthings
Of our death to our lips.

I remember my death
And I remember desire,
And they are not the same.

Nine months from tonight
A woman will be holding
Her belly in pain.

Amaranth

There are no starfish in the sky tonight,
But there is one below your belly,
And there are cold evenings in your eyes.

If I could get to your house
I would look under the bed of your childhood,
The tongueless loafer without laces or eyes,
The cave of your young foot
With its odor of moon, its dampness
Coming from underground, your shoe
Which also bled and is now an island.

You have to remember these are the memories
Of a survivor, you have to remember.

You could be looking for clay to haul away,
Fill for the deep washouts of your love.
All your old loves, they bled to death, too.

Your hair is like a cemetery full of hands,
Fingers in the moonlight.

When you come down to the heart
Bring your post-hole diggers and crowbar.
Do not set a corner, a fence won't last.
Do not bury our first child there,
Or set a post,
Although I have tasted blood on the lips of a stranger,
At night and in the run.

Terrorism

While my mother is washing the black socks
Of her religion,
I climb out of the washtub,
Stinking clean like the moon and the suds
In my ass,
The twenty she earned last week in my teeth,
My shoes and my pistol wrapped in my pants,
Slip off the back porch
And head down the road, buck naked and brave,
But lonely, because it's fifteen hours
By bus to the capital
And nobody will know
How it feels to nail down a heart
Black as tarpaper.
Mother, when you beat out my quilt tomorrow,
Remember the down in the sunlight,
Because I did not sleep there.
Remember, come evening, the last hatch of mayflies,
Because I won't.
They are evil, mother, and I am
Going to take it all out, in one motion,
The way you taught me to clean a fish,
Until all that is left is the memory of their voice,
And I will work that dark loose
From the backbone with my thumb.
Mother, the sad dance on fire.

youtube video of Whiskeytown 16 Days

nip! nap! it's all a trap. bo! bis! and so was this!

Randolph Park, Dublin, VA

Stone
--Charles Simic

Go inside a stone
That would be my way.
Let somebody else become a dove
Or gnash with a tiger's tooth.
I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:
No one knows how to answer it.
Yet within, it must be cool and quiet
Even though a cow steps on it full weight,
Even though a child throws it in a river;
The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed
To the river bottom
Where the fishes come to knock on it
And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out
When two stones are rubbed,
So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;
Perhaps there is a moon shining
From somewhere, as though behind a hill—
Just enough light to make out
The strange writings, the star-charts
On the inner walls.

The Resemblance Between Your Life and a Dog
--Robert Bly

I never intended to have this life, believe me--
It just happened. You know how dogs turn up
At a farm, and they wag but can't explain.

It's good if you can accept your life--you'll notice
Your face has become deranged trying to adjust
To it. Your face thought your life would look

Like your bedroom mirror when you were ten.
That was a clear river touched by mountain wind.
Even your parents can't believe how much you've changed.

Sparrows in winter, if you've ever held one, all feathers,
Burst out of your hand with a fiery glee.
You see them later in hedges. Teachers praise you,

But you can't quite get back to the winter sparrow.
Your life is a dog. He's been hungry for miles.
Doesn't particularly like you, but gives up, and comes in.

youtube video for an excerpt of phillip glass's "einstein on the beach"

If thy Kingdom ever comes, you better run, run, run, run

Painting of The Natural Bridge, Dixie Caverns, VA

But soon the fore part of him slowly rose from the water; for an instant his whole marbleized body formed a high arch, like Virginia's Natural Bridge, and warningly waving his bannered flukes in the air, the grand god revealed himself, sounded, and went out of sight.--Melville, Moby Dick

--video for Silver Jews' "Punks in the Beerlight"

I'm no hero, that's understood

Dodge Neon, Pulaski, VA

Springsteen playing "Thunder Road" at Hammersmith Odeon in 1975...quiet, piano driven version.