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The Vortex Foundation Big Band.

Never say never.© 1990s


So you don't feel so good?


What ya gonna do about it?


You're missing your lover & you know -

There won't be any other lover .. like that one.


So you don't feel so sweet - you can't seem to talk about it.
Your heart don't seem to beat and you got lead lined soles underneath your feet..


But don't ever, no never, say that love won't walk your way again..
Never say ever again.

You say you can't leave this room

you don't wanna play life any more..


It's no fun.
Are you gonna sit there all alone in the gloom?


Is this all you are living for?
Please, please don't cry, don't say the words that you say ..


Take a little time to think about it.


Catch your breath, hold your head while it spins,

let me see you grin -


and walk out the door with a look in your eyes that says..
Don't ever, no, never say that love won't walk your way ..
Never say never for love.

We said yes. Alive at Ronnie Scotts. Soho London

Bass Phil Scragg Drums Mike Bradley (2) Guitar Ivor Goldberg Percussion Gary Hammond Piano, Keyboards Janette Mason. Producer Debbie Dickinson. Vocals Carol Grimes

V. Oh I saw you walking down the street the other day

You didn’t see me, and I thought lucky oh lucky because I know you.

Oh no, don’t throw away today -

we’re having such a good time.

Don’t ever hide yourself away.

Chorus

We said yes, we promised love

I want my life with you.

We said yes -

I’m giving me heart only to you.

I had a dream last night, and in my dream

you were nowhere to be seen -

And I was so sad

In the morning when I woke, I felt you near me -

I was happy, happy glad.

You can be as high as the moon, bright in the sky

Come dance with me now.

Nothing to say no for.

Everything to go for.

Just let me say it. I love you.

Christmas songs for the season

We Are One Sing For Joy Choir by [email protected]

Jacques Brel: Chanson

https://carolgrimes.com/london-tales-my-love-for-oscar-brown-jr-and-beautiful-songs-if-i-only-had/

Blues for Louis. From my CD - Mother.

Inside my room, single bed, sink and gas ring

I listened to the blues, black vinyl warm spinning heart wanting the sound in my mouth.

Outside a window open in the summer heat, the street below the rowdy - dow of Earls Court Road. 1965.

Saturday night down to Louis's subterranean home

made mystic with leaves, sticks, stones,

incense filling the air as he cooked fragrant food from Mauritius-new tastes for my tongue, his hands beating time on a drum - singing the songs I never forgotten.

He played me ska records, Calypso and Blues.

Seeking bohemian magic in Soho where Jazz is,

late afternoon the sun shooting lights - dusty smoke spirals,

setting fire to a golden brandy in my glass. My first brandy.

Sitting small in beatnik black, blue velvet, blue jeans taking in mind seeds, drinking the juice of truth hanging on to the threads of dreams - wanting love and more...

Bottling for Paris Nat in Piccadilly one spring - his accordion, squeezing out the songs of France and the war, lost love and more.

Down to the big river.

A mournful London lullaby of tugboat and train,

the evening rain on my face. Softly.

I remained at the riverside, mesmerised by the water, the tide and the flow of it, the comforting old of it

A raucous chorus of seagulls - winging in on the wind from the sea in the east,

hungry for the city’s feast.

Castles and elephants, bridges and spires, factories,

domes, a million little red brick homes. Back to back - - street by street.

Back to my home in The All Saints Road -

The Grove next to The Mangrove, a Caribbean Cafe.

Now I am in a Winter mean morning wind raw in Bethnal Green, grey London streets blood shot with buses.

A woman catches my eye, I smile, she curses,

her voice a sore sound in the air, howl and scowl.

I knew her once a long lifetime ago.

He droops over his big issues, near asleep underneath a

stooped back, outside Camden Town Tube. Heels clip clipping, cigarette tips glowing.

Underground sulphur smell, hot breath, bodies close and

souls apart, swaying in a metal tube, eyes avoiding eyes avoiding touch and mind the gap.

Behind newspapers roaring the words of war once more, I came in in War April 1944. Falklands. 1980s.

Glow burning sunset on the top of a hill, purple night inching in from the west. In the City below the Hill Primrose Hill, the Sirens wail, and headlights strobe flicker between the leaves on the trees; on the roadside a dog laughs...

A man barks and the breeze lifts the hem of a skirt, flowers low bowing to the earth as I look with older eyes through tears and a once-upon-a-time song.

I remember Louis and the drum and the song as I sing my blues............. Blues for Louis.

The Dance. A poem.

If I could choose, I would be

living under a round yellow sun,

where a red fiddler stands,

with a ring in his nose

& a blue violin tucked under his chin,

let the music begin.

A golden green girl, I could be

long indigo hair, sea shells for a necklace

I have flowers for the fiddler,

afloat on the winds of the dance

a tipsy Gypsy twisting and turning

let the joyance begin.

A painter arrives on a sunbeam,

a violet cockerel in his arms

giddy bird whirling and twirling -

whilst dancers dance & lovers entwine .

There is no time, only golden time

never again to return to the greys of familiar days....

let me drown here, be seduced here ;

stay forever in mystery, 
 eternally dancing the dance.

If I could choose, I would see

a bird with a crown looking down

from a nest in a silvery tree

humans would metamorphose into creatures -

creatures sing the best songs,

Where food is as light as moon dust -plucked from the air.

The Dance. A poem speaking of my love of the paintings of Marc Chagall

If I could choose - I would be living - under a round yellow sun, where - a red fiddler stands, with a ring in his nose-

a blue violin tucked under his chin.

Let the music begin.

A golden green girl I would be - long indigo hair,

sea shells for a necklace. I have flowers for the fiddler,

afloat on the breeze in the skies.

A tipsy Gypsy, twisting and turning -

let the joyful dance begin.

A painter arrives on a sunbeam, a violet cockerel in his arms - giddy bird whirling and twirling whilst dancers dance and lovers entwine - there is no time - only golden time never again to return to the greys of familiar days....

Let me be here, be seduced here -

stay forever in mystery - eternally dancing the dance.

I would see a bird with a crown looking down -

from a nest nestled within a silvery tree.

Humans transformed into fantastic creatures.

They would sing the best songs - where food -

is as light as moon dust - plucked from the air.

Fluorescent abalone shells filled to the brim with wine -

as divine as raindrops infused with the dews of the morning -

before sweet sleep holds us all in her arms.

Gold In Them Hills

Song by Ron Sexsmith

I know it doesn't seem that way

But maybe it's the perfect day

Even though the bills are piling

And maybe Lady Luck ain't smiling

But if we'd only open our eyes

We'd see the blessings in disguise

That all the rain clouds are fountains

Though our troubles seem like mountains

There's gold in them hills

There's gold in them hills

So don't lose heart

Give the day a chance to start

Every now and then life says

Where do you think you're going so fast

We're apt to think it cruel but sometimes

It's a case of cruel to be kind

And if we'd get up off our knees

Why then we'd see the forest for the trees

And we'd see the new sun rising

Over the hills on the horizon

There's gold in them hills

There's gold in them hills

So don't lose faith

Give the world a chance to say...

A word or two, my friend

There's no telling how the day might end

And we'll never know until we see

That there's gold in them hills

There's gold in them hills

So don't lose heart

Give the day a chance to start

There's gold in them hills

There's gold in them hills

Carol Grimes, vocals;

Ian Shaw, Hammond / Rhodes, vocals;

Greg Wain, guitars, vocals;

Steve Watts, double bass;

Stan Adler, cello; RIP

Mark Fletcher, drums, percussion, fire extinguisher;

Annie Whitehead, trombone;

Josefina Cupido, percussion, vocals;

Elton Dean, saxophones; RIP

Harry Becket, trumpet RIP

New Coat of Paint [Tom Waits] (3.01)

Into My Arms [Nick Cave] (4.24)

Who Knows Where the Time Goes [Sandy Denny] (6.08)

Moira [words Carol Grimes, music Ian Shaw] (3.50)

Scars [Fran Landesman, Simon Wallace] (4.13)

Gold in Them Hills [Ron Sexsmith] (2.56)

Better off Dead [Randy Newman] (2.51)

USA [Shane MacGowan] (2.49)

Two Grey Rooms [Joni Mitchell] (5.08)

Blues for Louis [poem Carol Grimes, music arr. Ian Shaw] (4.48)

You Don't Know What Love Is [Don Ray, Gene DePaul] (5.48)

Mother [John Lennon] (5.14)

All songs arr. Ian Shaw

The Singer's Tale by [email protected]