Dale Marsh

Dale Marsh

BandFolkAcoustic

Hiya! I play acoustic guitar and accompany myself on a few songs with harmonica and occasionaly a kazoo on a couple crazy tunes guaranteed to make you smile. Yep, kazoo! My music may have you laughing or grabbing for a tissue. Lots of love songs. Please come say hey after the show!

Biography

Dale Marsh is a Texas acoustic, singer/songwriter with roots in acoustic, contemporary folk music. As a teenager in the late 60s, I listened to everything from my moms Spike Jones records to my dads Pete Fountain. John Prine, B.W. Stevenson, James Taylor, Steve Fromholtz, Willis Alan Ramsey and David Wilcox, have all helped shape the songs I write. I've been singing since I was 6 and have worked hard to hone my baritone voice to be as Kim Townsand puts it "as soothing as a warm quilt on a cool autumn evening."

Lyrics

Johnny Appleseed's Lament

Written By: Dale Marsh

They knocked over all the trees with big bull dozers
Pushed em’ up into piles to watch em’ burn
Scraped off all the top soil
Left it flatter than a table top
Started planting houses
Looks like a bumper crop
They plowed under everything worth saving
Came along and hammered in wooden stakes
With little orange flags
Now it’s blacktop on the prairie
Where the deer and the antelope stood
For another super Walmart
And a gated neighborhood

Johnny Appleseed had it all figured out
You live a simple life till you're time runs out
Try to make this world a better place
But Johnny, there’s no room for apple trees anyway
These days
There’s no room for apple trees anyway

There were people living here before Columbus
They’d been here a thousand years when he arrived
They took only what they needed
From the bounty of the fruited plain
But when they met the pale skinned strangers
It never was the same
Big promises were made and forsaken
By the one’s whose vision had been blinded by their greed
But when they slaughtered all the buffalo
That was the final straw
You know, Some folks are never happy
Until they have it all

But ol’ Johnny Appleseed had it all figured out
You live a simple life till you're time runs out
Try to make this world a better place
But Johnny, there’s no room for apple trees anyway
These days
There’s no room for apple trees anyway
These days
There’s no room for apple trees anyway

Tracks After The Rain

Written By: Dale Marsh

The first smell of rain, across that summer grass.
Takes me back to my youth, to a page out of my past.
Makes me think about my granddad and how he taught me about the land.
Oh, how I loved that man.

He’d say there’s red ant
mounds in rock hard ground.
And old tractors gone to rust.
Arrow heads and river beds
and red West Texas dust.
But nothing ever stays
the same,
Just our memory.
Everything gets washed away
like tracks after the rain.

There’s an old abandoned farm house in the hills just west of town.
With it’s windmill Aero Motor missing blades and falling down.
And the fences all need mending and the wells have all gone dry.
The city inches closer with each day that passes by.

And the sun sinks low into the
western sky.
Take a deep, cool breath; let it
slip out as a sigh.

Oh, there’s so many things that remind me of those days.
Of old king Cole and swimming holes and ten cent matinees.
And driving down that rutted lane to the road that went to town.
Where has it all gone now?
Oh, I’d like to go back somehow.

To those red ant mounds
in rock hard ground.
And old tractors gone to rust.
Prickly pears and double dares
and lightning bugs at dusk.
But nothing ever stays the
same,
Just our memory.
Everything gets washed away
like tracks after the rain.

Nothing stays the same.

Old tire swings hung from a tree with rope.

Washing up with Ivory soap.

Playing in the rain soaked to the bone.

Please can I keep him, he just followed me home.

This is America © 2004

Written By: Dale Marsh


It’s a white linen table cloth from a dime store.
A weathered old hat on a nail by the door.
Linoleum worn thin at a small town café.
Or homemade ice cream after church on Sunday.

It’s Christmas with family and a candlelight dinner.
It’s picking six numbers hoping you’re the next winner.
A high school reunion on the fourth of July.
A dance at Gruene hall on Saturday night.

This is America.
Home of the brave and free.
We can follow our dreams where
ever they lead.
This is America.

It’s running for office in your local election.
The privilege to vote to make the selection.
It’s going to worship where ever we want to.
Or not going at all if that’s what you choose.

It’s a newborn baby in the arms of it’s mother.
It’a people in need helping out one another.
The strength and the courage in the dawns early light.
It’s rising above when there’s no hope in sight.

This is America.
Home of the brave and free.
We can follow our dreams where
ever they lead.
This is America.

I’m a coal miners son from the hills of Kentucky.
I’m a millionaire’s daughter, sometimes we’re born lucky
I’m a veteran who dreams about all the old days.
I’m an angry young man – I’ve got something to say!

We’re farmers and ranchers out in the fields.
We’re the movers and shakers, making the deals.
We’re teachers and students and truck drivers too.
We’re the cops and firefighters.
We’re the Red, White and Blue!

This is America.
Home of the brave and free.
We can follow our dreams where
ever they lead.
This is America.

This is America.

Oh, beautiful for spacious skies.
For amber waves of grain….

Discography


"No Turning Back"

"Hidden Moments of Grace" in the works for '09

"Live on Second Life" also in the works for '09

Set List

A mix of original songs and covers from other indy songwriters as well as a few tasty numbers from some of my musical hero's.