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Howling at the Sun

Howling at the Sun

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“Howling” chronicles some snapshots of memorable moments. Looking back on these events they all seem fresh to me, and I wonder what’s happened to the people who were part of them. Mostly I’ve completely lost contact: in many cases I’m ashamed to admit I can’t even remember names.

I wrote this song when I thought the “Lean on the Angels” album was largely finished, and mostly completed the recording one Sunday afternoon. I’m particularly fond of the fourth verse.

Photograph courtesy of Ben Gertzfield

Take me back to the summer of seventy three,
A lambent evening on Rue Jolie;
We were five up on a motorbike singing off-key.
Well they fetched the Akaroa constable,
Dragged him from his black and white TV
To take our names and fix some blame for being too free.

Howling at the sun,
Dancing to a rhythm wiser, wider, wilder than the sea.
Living with the wind,
Laughing at the rules
And bending what we couldn’t break for free.
Howling at the sun.

On a family summer holiday
We ran away from home at fifteen.
From Kaiteriteri we walked and walked to Blenheim.
But it froze and we had to turn ourselves in;
The night in the cells was no game.
In the morning the sergeant made us walk back the way we came.

Howling at the sun

We were driving to Sumner in seventy six
To buy a bag or two from the man.
Radio up, windows down in the summer sun.
We were clean when the CIB busted in,
But they strip-searched us just for fun.
We lost our money and drove back home knowing we’d been done.

Howling at the sun

Well I heard from Pauline,
She’s a lawyer in Hamilton now,
And Jamie’s a priest somewhere in America, God knows how.
Roni’s a mother of four teenagers
And Ben’s a policeman in Thames:
We’d never have cut him in on the action if we’d known that then.
[note color=”#86c440″]Leigh Harrison © APRA 2004[/note]