Kelly Joe Phelps, the master lap-slide and country blues player, gravel vocalist and mosaic lyricist, has been a hero of mine since I first heard him at the Vancouver Folk Fest nearly twenty years ago. When you start playing folk music yourself, you sometimes find yourself literally following in the footsteps of your heroes, gigging at clubs and festivals they might have just played. A couple years ago, I saw Kelly Joe’s tour poster on the wall in one such club in Northern Germany and the promoter told me Kelly Joe had canceled those dates, wasn’t too sure why. Two years later, I find myself sitting beside Steve Dawson (slide guitar master in his own right) at a folk awards show in Calgary and knowing that he’s been a longtime friend and collaborator of Kelly Joe’s, I decide to drain my beer and ask him about it. He tells me KJP seemed to be taking a break from music, that he might take up something totally different, might become a forest ranger. He tells me Kelly Joe seems to be doing ok, maybe. But, he tells me, he’d seen on one of the vintage instrument vendor sites that Kelly Joe had just sold his last guitar.
lyrics
Kelly Joe, I heard you sold your last guitar
Somebody told me. Man, we were wond’ring where you are
And I remembered in the cold, when I slept in my father’s car
After driving seven hours to see you play the Dreaming Bar
It was years ago
Hey, you know, I remember asking your advice
A song I wrote, I was praying that you’d like it
There was space around your words and you were kind in your reply
You said, “you sing it like a ringer and your imagery is fine”
That made me smile
Kelly Joe, don’t let it go
Your perfect sound is a radio I’ve carried with me when I’m down
Would Vince Van Gogh have sold his brushes if he’d got old?
Hey, Kelly Joe, I heard you got a new idea
To get your boots and get your cap and be a ranger in the trees
Well, that doesn’t seem a stretch, I guess it’s no surprise to me
And I think it’s a relief just to know you have a dream
You have a dream
Kelly Joe, don’t let it go
Your perfect sound is a radio I’ve carried with me when I’m down
Would Vince Van Gogh have sold his brushes if he’d got old?
Does genius demand a ransom, higher as years go by?
And does doubt come through the cracks if genius isn’t recognized?
And I know it’s not my business but I wish you’d compromise
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