Sara Paretsky was talking on Facebook about how The City of New Orleans train used to go right by her dining room, and somebody responded with this wonderful 1972 video of
Steve Goodman performing his song.
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http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=2878
Illinois Central, Monday mornin' rail;
Fourteen cars and fourteen restless riders,
Three conductors, twenty five sacks of mail.
Changin' cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
Halfway home, we'll be there 'fore mornin',
Steve Goodman performing his song.
Steve Goodman was an amazing talent, who wrote clever songs about Chicago and life, in no particular order. He died in 1984 of leukemia but his music lives on:
Taffy Cannon MPHS 66
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I loved his sound. Thanks for this clip.
Sharon Avny
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Very nice. Thanks.
Will Hepburn
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From Song Facts
The City of New Orleans.
Illinois Central, Monday mornin' rail;
Fourteen cars and fourteen restless riders,
Three conductors, twenty five sacks of mail.
All along the southbound odyssey, the train rolls out of Kankakee
Ridin' past the houses, farms and fields,
Passin' trains that have no names, freight yards full of old black men,
The graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
Good mornin' America, how are you?
Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans.
I'll be gone five hundred miles 'fore the day is done.
Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car,
Penny a point, ain't no-one keepin' score.
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle,
Feel the wheels a-rumblin' 'neath the floor.
And the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers
Ride their fathers' magic carpet made of steel;
Ridin' past the houses, farms and fields,
Passin' trains that have no names, freight yards full of old black men,
The graveyards of the rusted automobiles.
Good mornin' America, how are you?
Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans.
I'll be gone five hundred miles 'fore the day is done.
Dealin' card games with the old men in the club car,
Penny a point, ain't no-one keepin' score.
Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle,
Feel the wheels a-rumblin' 'neath the floor.
And the sons of Pullman porters and the sons of engineers
Ride their fathers' magic carpet made of steel;
Mothers with their babes asleep, rockin' to the gentle beat,And the rythm of the rails is all they feel.
Good day, America, how are you?
Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans.
I'll be gone five hundred miles 'fore the day is done.
Nighttime on the City of New Orleans,Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans.
I'll be gone five hundred miles 'fore the day is done.
Changin' cars in Memphis, Tennessee.
Halfway home, we'll be there 'fore mornin',
Through the Mississippi darkness rollin' down to the sea.
And all the towns and people seem to fade into a bad dream,
And the steel wheels still ain't heard the news,
The conductor sings his songs again, the passengers will please refrain,
This train's got the disappearin' railroad blues.
And the steel wheels still ain't heard the news,
The conductor sings his songs again, the passengers will please refrain,
This train's got the disappearin' railroad blues.
Good night, America, how are you?
Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans.
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done
...
...
Say, don't you know me? I'm your native son.
I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans.
I'll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done
.
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