From the recordings Flower Time and FLOWER TIME
This is the imaginary subterranean bar where my favorite songwriters go after their shows to hang out and steal each other's ideas.
Rags Rosenberg - Lead Vocal, Acoustic Guitar, Dobro, Piano, Organ / Michael Papillo - Bass / Heike Binder-Altziebler - Accordion / George Altziebler - Harmonica
Lyrics
SMOKEY JOE’S
It’s 4am on sunset the traffic’s moving slow,
The purple neon flashes: “Come on in, we never close.”
Outside, the line is forming, the wannabees all flirt
They buzz around the doorman, lifting up their skirts
Inside the royalty reclines In the afterglow
The congregation’s gathering downstairs at Smokey Joe’s
There’s Mr. Clark and Johnny and everyone can tell
Those smiles that they’re wearing’ are illegal as hell
They’re slicing red tomatoes, the home-grown variety
And laughing’ like those good ol’ boys can laugh in Tennessee
And guy, he’s drinking’ whiskey, a single malt, you know,
The kind you can’t find anywhere ‘cept down at Smokey Joe’s
Bobby’s quite the joker, you cannot pin him down
Between those devil’s horns he sports a dark and thorny crown
He whispers to Johanna "Let’s get out while we can
Before they turn us all into statues made of sand
Yeah come on, let’s go fishing’ I brought my line and pole
There’s always something biting’ downstairs at Smokey Joe’s."
Lenny lets the light in and in his holy way
Perfectly imperfect he removes his clothes to pray
And everybody’s bowing' to gods unseen again
For every drop of golden ink that passed down through their pens
Yeah, thanks for "What’s it to ya” and “Everybody Knows”
They’re singing “Hallelujah” downstairs at Smokey Joe’s
Big Yellow Taxi drops off a brilliant star,
All eyes are upon her procession to the bar,
Bartender, a martini, please,
And the boys all gather 'round,
They raise their glass to Joni,
Ah, girl you own this town!
Here's to clouds of angel hair and
all your rows and flows,
To Don Juan's reckless daughter
Downstairs at Smokey Joe's
Tom parks his ol’ ’55, slips on his hat and coat
He takes another swig o’ wine, he takes another toke
There’s paparazzi everywhere, but Tom won't make the news
They’re busy with a
Well, her lips are fat as oysters but the doorman, he says “No
That ain’t the look they’re looking’ for downstairs at Smokey Joe’s."
I know its unappealing to see me on my knees
Begging' like an orphan “Just a crumb, sir, if you please”
But who else can I turn to in my hour of need
To save me from the oblivion of mediocrity
Now, who are you to criticize? I saw you with your soul
Whispering’ to the devil out behind Smokey Joe’s.
© Phillip Rosenberg