“Money To Burn” is another great song written by J.D. Hutchison, whom I have had the privilege of seeing and hearing live in southeastern Ohio. This version, which is sung by bluegrass and country singer Tim O’Brien, was released 6/17/2016.
“I don’t remember when I first heard this J.D. Hutchison song, but Hot Rize recorded it for the record called ‘Take It Home,’ released in 1990. By that time Hot Rize had recorded two other fine Hutchison compositions — Ain’t I Been Good To You, and My Little Darlin’ — and J.D. was a trusted song source. His fresh songs had the right groove, the simple harmony, and the straightforward lyrics that make for good Bluegrass. He’d made two LP’s with his brother Bob and their Hutchison Brothers band in the mid 1970’s, but to hear newer J.D. pieces, you had to be in the same room with him. His song pitches were barebones. He’d sing the first verse and chorus into your cassette recorder, and then recite following verses, never repeating the chorus. I remember such a rendition just outside the men’s room in some Ohio valley nightclub hallway.”
These are J.D. Hutchison’s lyrics:
There’s nothin’ to some ladies like money in your hand Love’s just some poetic fantasy Let the ladies have my money and let the devil take his turn When I have money to burn, when I have money to burn If I had a nickel for every broken promise That I have made in my life Time after time I never seem to learn I would have money to burn, I would have money to burn Lies and broken promises roll gently from the tongue And I wish I had a nickel for every one Sign yours most sincerely, send to whom it may concern I would have money to burn, I would have money to burn Now, if I had a nickel for every precious moment That I had spent like water day by day Like some men made of mud it’s upon my bed I turn I would have money to burn, I would have money to burn Well, there’s nothin’ to some ladies like money in your hand Love is some poetic fantasy Let the ladies have my money and let the devil take his turn When I have money to burn, when I have money to burn When I have money to burn, when I have money to burn
Good people worked on this song:
Sean Sullivan — engineer Ian Fitchuk — Hammond organ John Gardner — drums Viktor Krauss — bass Doug Lancio — guitar Tim O’Brien — vocal
If you like this song (and of course you do) and if you want to hear more songs by J.D. Hutchison (and of course you do), check out his album YOU AND THE WORLD OUTSIDE here on Amazon:
Also check out J.D. Hutchison’s version of the song on his album REALBILLY JIVE:
• Charles Bukowski worked at lousy jobs for much of his life, but he wanted to be a writer. In 1969, John Martin, publisher of Black Sparrow Press, made him an offer: For each and every month of the rest of Mr. Bukowski’s life, Mr. Martin would pay him $100. Mr. Martin atttached a condition: Mr. Bukowski had to quit his job at the post office. Instead of working at lousy jobs, he would have to write. Mr. Bukowski, age 49, gladly accepted the offer and quit his job and wrote. In 1971, Black Sparrow Presspublished Mr. Bukowski’sfirst novel: Post Office. After 15 years of receiving $100 each and every month, Mr. Bukowski wrote Mr. Martin a letter in which he expressed his appreciation at not having to work at lousy jobs. In part, he wrote, “I remember once, working as a packer in this lighting fixture company, one of the packers suddenly said: ‘I’ll never be free!’ One of the bosses was walking by (his name was Morrie) and he let out this delicious cackle of a laugh, enjoying the fact that this fellow was trapped for life. So, the luck I finally had in getting out of those places, no matter how long it took, has given me a kind of joy, the jolly joy of the miracle. I now write from an old mind and an old body, long beyond the time when most men would ever think of continuing such a thing, but since I started so late I owe it to myself to continue, and when the words begin to falter and I must be helped up stairways and I can no longer tell a bluebird from a paperclip, I still feel that something in me is going to remember (no matter how far I’m gone) how I’ve come through the murder and the mess and the moil, to at least a generous way to die. To not to have entirely wasted one’s life seems to be a worthy accomplishment, if only for myself.”
• Maurice Sendak, who died on 8 May 2012, wrote and illustrated many books for children. Of course, he received letters from his readers. He liked the ones that were actually voluntarily written by the kids — adults assigned too many of the letters he received. He gave an example: “Dear Mr. Sendak, Mrs. Markowitz said would you please send a free book and two drawings?” But the ones from children who actually felt the urge to write him were wonderful and wonderfully honest — Mr. Sendak appreciated honesty. After he wrote Outside Over There, a little girl from Canada read it and wrote him, “I like all of your books, why did you write this book, this is the first book I hate. I hate the babies in this book, why are they naked, I hope you die soon. Cordially…” Her mother wrote this note that accompanied the letter: “I wondered if I should even mail this to you — I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”Mr. Sendak’s feelings were not hurt. He said, “I was so elated. It was so natural and spontaneous. The mother said, ‘You should know I am pregnant and she has been fiercely opposed to it.’ Well, she [the little girl] didn’t want competition, and the whole book was about a girl who’s fighting against having to look after her baby sister.” Mr. Sendak added, “If [the letter is] true, then you can’t care about the vicious and the painful. You can only be astonished. Most kids don’t dare tell the truth. Kids are the politest people in the world. A letter [that says, ‘I hope you die soon’] is wonderful. ‘I wish you would die.’ I should have written back, ‘Honey, I will.’”
• Jo Nesbø is the Norwegian author of Scanda-noir crime thrillers starring the character Harry Hole, about whose last name he said, “The Norwegian pronunciation is Hoola, but it’s fine if you call him Hole.” When Mr. Nesbøwas younger, he played in a rock band with a younger brother. Mr. Nesbø said, “When we started the band, we really weren’t that good and we would change our name every week so that audiences wouldn’t realize it was us playing again. So the band never really had a name. Eventually we got a bit better and fans would ask when di derre[Norwegian for ‘those guys’] were coming back. So we called ourselves Di Derre.” By the way, Mr. Nesbø is a soccer [European football] fan. When he was 10 years old, he thought about becoming a fan of the Arsenal football club, but an older brother forced him to become a fan of Tottenham. Mr. Nesbø explained, “I had been thinking about supporting Arsenal because I quite liked the shirts. But then my 15-year-old brother told me firmly that I wasn’t and that I had two days to learn the entire Tottenham squad. He wasn’t someone that you disobeyed.” Harry Hole is a fan of Tottenham Hotspur football club, and in one of Mr.Nesbø’s Harry Hole thrillers, the bad guys are drug dealers who wear Arsenal replica shirts. Mr. Nesbø said, “I’ve got a number of friends who support Arsenal, and they gave me a lot of grief about that. They said, ‘Only a coward uses his power as a writer to do something like that.’ […] I told them to sod off.”
• One of the stories told about Kurt Vonnegut is how he quit his job writing for Sports Illustrated. He was assigned to write a story about a horse that jumped over a fence during a race and tried to run away. Supposedly, Mr. Vonnegut stared for hours at a blank sheet of paper, and then he wrote “The horse jumped over the f**king fence” and quit. Later, as a famous author, he made a cameo in the movie Back to School. He played himself, and the character played by Rodney Dangerfield hired him to write a term paper on the novels of Kurt Vonnegut. After Mr. Dangerfield handed in the paper and the professor read it, the professor recognized that the paper was plagiarized and added, “Whoever did write this doesn’t know the first thing about Kurt Vonnegut.”
I spent a lot of time trying
to fit into another skin tone –
dyeing my hair lighter
wearing muted clothing
pretending to dread the lunches my mother packed
that my friends always made fun of
Today, my jet-black hair requires no comb
I pack delicate, complex meals
speak three languages and
languish, knowing
what an honour it is
to just be asian.
Happy Asian Pacific American Heritage Month! I’m dedicating a few poems to my family this May.Please feel free to share your stories in the comments below.
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