For many a year I believed "We can't make it here anymore” by James McMurtry was THE quintessential protest song on the condition of the US of A. Although it was written in 2005, it is still as relevant today as it was then. However, with eleven verses, it takes a bit of time and energy to learn and remember all of them (I did at one time) and then sing it at the local coffeehouse.
A couple of weeks ago, our drummer emailed the rest of the band that that we needed to learn Steve Earle’s “The Low Highway”. Holy crap. He condenses “We can’t make it here anymore” into three verses.
The diary title is from the first verse.
Travelin' now
On the low highway
Three thousand miles
To the Frisco Bay
Cross the rivers wild
And the lonesome plains
Up the coast and down
And back again
Saw empty houses on a dead end street
People linin’ up for something to eat
And the ghost of America watching me
Through the broken windows of the factories
Pickin’ bones of a better day
As I roll on the down the low highway
The simplicity of his writing blows me away. He sets the mood gently with a simple travelogue and then punches you in the gut with what he sees. He continues this format for the rest of the song.
Travelin' now
On the low highway
By the yellow moon
And the light of day
From the snow white crown
Of a mountain tall
To the valley down
Where the shadows fall
Met a man with a rifle in his hand
Been away to battle in a distant land
Taught him to hate taught him to kill
Now he's out on the road with a hole to fill
Nobody knows the price he paid
So he takes his toll on the low highway
Travelin' now
On the low highway
Windows down
Listenin’
Wheels turnin’ round
On the asphalt sayin’
Every sound
Is a prophecy
Heard an old man grumble and a young girl cry
Brick wall crumble and the white dove fly
And a cry for justice and a call for peace
Force of reason and the roar of the beast
And every mile is a prayer I prayed
As I roll down
The low highway
Genius.