Quote

As you sell your soul and sow your seeds, and you wound yourself and your loved ones bleed. And your habits grow and your conscience feeds, on all that you thought you should be.

Don McLean

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Don McLean
Age: 79
Born: 1945
Born: October 2
Composer
Guitarist
Singer
Singer-Songwriter
Songwriter
New Rochelle
New York
Donald McLean III
Thought
Sells
Soul
Conscience
Bleed
Habit
Feeds
Ones
Wound
Grow
Habits
Loved
Wounds
Grows
Seeds
Evil
Sell

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The kids today all seem to think they should be stars, but I wasn't brought up that way.
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A long long time ago, I can still remember how that music use to make me smile.
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Drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry.
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I'm glad that my music has helped other people as it's helped me. It makes me glad that I did what I did with my life.
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Work my hands in the soil, what's the pay for all the toil? Dust for blood, dust for blood, dust for blood.
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I'd listen to all the stuff that was going on around me and drift off into my fantasies about it. My fantasies have fuelled all the songs I've ever written.
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In a sense, 'American Pie' was a very despairing song but it can also be seen as very hopeful.
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I had asthma when I was a kid, asthma so bad that it would turn into pneumonia and I almost died several times. Nobody knew why back then, but now it's obvious.
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Some believe in Jesus, they don't act like they do. Some believe in Mohammed, I don't believe that's true. Cause they do believe in money, and gold is what it's for, all the gold can't buy no peace of mind in a world that don't believe in nothing anymore.
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I don't relate to what's left of the music business. There doesn't seem to be any point to it anymore. The business that I grew up in and loved, we made records a different way - there were record companies, there were stores where you could buy albums.
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Starry Starry night Paint your palette blue and gray Look out on a summer's day With eyes that know the darkness in my soul Shadows on the hills Sketch the trees and the daffodils Catch the breeze and the winter chills In colors on the snowy linen land.
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That's the hard thing - getting started. You get started for a long time until you finally get to this point where people call you an icon or whatever they call you. It's nice. Suddenly the audience is with you more and they help you along and it's not so much that you have to do everything.
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Hills of forest green where the mountains touch the sky, a dream come true, I'll live there til I die.
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When I go on the road now, which is less than before, but still more than I'd like to, I think of myself primarily as a singer. Not a songwriter, not a celebrity, just a man who likes to sing.
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Every pulse of your heartbeat is one liquid moment that flows through the veins of your being. Like a river of life flowing on since creation, approaching the sea with each new generation.
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I am what I do, and that's partly why I don't want to give up singing. But when I can't sing well, I will.
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Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack sat on a candle stick, cause fire is the devil's only friend.
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Every thread of creation is held in position by still other strands of things living. In an earthly tapestry hung from the skyline of smoldering cities so gray and so vulgar, as not to be satisfied with their own negativity, but needing to touch all the living as well.
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In the autumn of 1970 I had a job singing in the school system, playing my guitar in classrooms.
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Helter skelter in a summer swelter.
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