Vietnam Memorial: The Wall
Posted on November 8, 2011 with 1 comment
Vietnam Memorial Wall
Canvas bags draping slumped shoulders, buckles digging into tired muscles, nervous fingers losing their sweaty grip every tenth step, I huffed my gear through the crowds of soldiers. Spotting a slightly wooded area to escape the baking sun, the bags almost magnetically pulled themselves towards cover; reaching it they slid off the shoulders with a sigh through puffed cheeks.
Rubbing the burn from sore neck muscles, stretching out the back, and taking in the action all around; I wondered what the day might look like in hindsight, and which one of the souls out there might be a new found friend by day’s end.
A bit nervous of what to expect amid the battle experienced soldiers out there, wonderment gave way to doubt as to whether the ability to even identify with what they have seen allows for friendship.
Finally, two gents approached asking if I was who I was. Confirming it with handshakes, we began chatting as bags were opened and gear pulled out. Opening the case and sitting on a stool, I began to fiddle around on my guitar.
No, we weren’t killing time prior to reporting for duty in a US military base in Vietnam, we arrived at the State Capitol grounds in St. Paul, Minnesota; at a kickoff event the governor of Minnesota declared as Vietnam Day.
So why was I there? It wasn’t for doing a tour of duty in Vietnam; I was born about a decade and a half too late for that. Besides age being a factor, though I probably didn’t know it at 18-years old, there was a hereditary disease slowly scattering throughout my retinas affecting peripheral and night vision; and very likely it would have pulled a 4F medical discharge anyway. If that wouldn’t have prevented being shipped out, eventually from mere survival of the fittest, some North Vietnamese soldier would have shipped me back in a box, carving my name in the Memorial Wall with the business end of his weapon.
I was at the Vietnam Day event by invitation from a grass roots effort, to come and play some music. Sort of a 1960’s protest style thing, only we weren’t protesting, we were joining the proclamation and recognition of the brave men and women who served in Vietnam.
A compilation CD of Vietnam songs had recently been released, designed to help heal emotional wounds and not let the world forget what suffering went on back then; and a song I co-wrote with two other writers (Mitch Townley and Judy Gorman King), was picked as the featured song for the CD. The song is entitled, “The Wall.”
Once the gear was set up out on the large grounds of the Capitol, we started playing. We played for children, fellow musicians, curious event attendees, friends and families of soldiers who stopped to listen, and then they came.
Mike, one of the gentlemen who gave the invite, rounded the corner with a group of Viet Vets. As they approached, battle earned metals clinked on silver haired gents as they jokingly milled about asking if I knew any Hank Williams; and then Mike said, “Brad, why don’t you play your song for these gentlemen?”
I will tell you, having played for many people at all kinds of gigs throughout the years, nerves had never been tested in this way before. Staring out with what vision was musterable, looking at this group of amazing souls standing before me who—all but a handful of decades ago were scared, brave young men watching their buddies tore apart right next to them in fox holes, on the battle field, and in transport jeeps—facing unknown emotional battles of uncertainty whether the local people there approaching them, men, women or children all equal in ability; were allies of safety, or enemies about to cut them down. Miraculously, here they were standing anxiously, staring at me expectantly, wanting to hear the song that was written just for them; and me desperately hoping we had gotten what they felt inside, right.
Swallowing hard and slow, raking a few strums on the guitar to get emotionally anchored, I started to sing:
When you were searching for my name today
I saw you standing there
Man you look different
With that silver in your hair
Me, I haven’t changed a bit
Still all of twenty-one
That’s the thing about us spirits
We’re forever young
At the wall …, here at the wall
Mid-way through the song with quivering lips and doubts I could even make it all the way through without choking up, I began to feel a reverence for these men stronger than ever before; men who endured not only a very different war out on the battlefield and in the jungle, but also the unexpected one of patriotic betrayal soon after the planes wheels screeched the tarmac back home.
I don’t think one strand of hair laid flat the entire length of the song but I did make it through to the end. When I finished, a nervous silence loomed for a second or two; wondering to myself, “Brad? What did you just do? You had better not offended them assuming you know what they feel inside.” The silence stood for a few seconds more and I was immediately swallowed up with soldiers shaking my hand 60’s style, giving pats on the back, and profusely giving thanks for writing the song. We snapped a quick picture with them, all the while me thanking them for their service, and that it was only a shame that the song had need to be written in the first place. That was one of the, if not the, most special experiences I’d ever had playing.
Prior to “The Wall” being written, I’d thought pretty heavy on writing a song about Vietnam. Considering it further, it seemed an obvious decision to write one dealing with the wall, maybe the Traveling Wall? Going back up on the National Memorial website, I spent hours up there reading profile entries that folks left for their loved ones. There were old goodbyes and present tense conversations: words from old high school buddies, family members keeping up a vigil, neighborhood friends who popped in after thinking about them, school teachers who wrote shortly after the news, and of course those uniquely bonded souls who served with them in the war …; excuse me …, “police action.”
Reading the entries was addictive, and more gripping than a Friday night suspense flick. Hopping up on the site before dinner, I didn’t pull away from the computer until the morning sun popped up. After spending the night reading droves of profiles of 21-year olds who never came back, the desire to write a song about Vietnam and the wall was there now more than ever.
As strong a desire it was to write a Vietnam wall song, I hadn’t told anyone of the plan. The goal was to have a solo write, so the idea never left the writing room. After a week and a half of knocking around some ideas and not really settling on any particular idea, an email came through from a songwriting buddy of mine. He said he ran into a poet at a veteran’s event in Nashville, got permission to use the poem as foundation for a lyric, and wanted to know if I wanted in on the song.
Stunned at the timing of this opportunity, I naturally agreed. A few days later we came out with our song entitled, “The Wall”.
I often wonder, after nearly two weeks of milling it around, surfing the web, staying up all night mesmerized by what I was reading, trying to pour my soul into the boots of those kids and their surviving families, not saying anything to anyone about my desire to write such a song about the Vietnam Wall, and then out of the blue to be approached with this opportunity? —I don’t know—is that just a simple coincidence? Or could there have been more to it than that?
The Wall has been played at a variety of places ranging from major commercial country radio, to web stations, to live performances at local memorial ceremonies, to my own gigs; and I am very humbled it will be performed by Silver Hammer, an east-coast youth band raising brows up and down the eastern port, as they play it as part of their invitation to perform at the National Memorial event in Washington DC this Veterans Day on November 11.
Hear the song in it’s entirety and read the lyrics at: http://www.braddunsemusic.com/music-45.html
Canvas bags draping slumped shoulders, buckles digging into tired muscles, nervous fingers losing their sweaty grip every tenth step, I huffed my gear through the crowds of soldiers. Spotting a slightly wooded area to escape the baking sun, the bags almost magnetically pulled themselves towards cover; reaching it they slid off the shoulders with a sigh through puffed cheeks.
Rubbing the burn from sore neck muscles, stretching out the back, and taking in the action all around; I wondered what the day might look like in hindsight, and which one of the souls out there might be a new found friend by day’s end.
A bit nervous of what to expect amid the battle experienced soldiers out there, wonderment gave way to doubt as to whether the ability to even identify with what they have seen allows for friendship.
Finally, two gents approached asking if I was who I was. Confirming it with handshakes, we began chatting as bags were opened and gear pulled out. Opening the case and sitting on a stool, I began to fiddle around on my guitar.
No, we weren’t killing time prior to reporting for duty in a US military base in Vietnam, we arrived at the State Capitol grounds in St. Paul, Minnesota; at a kickoff event the governor of Minnesota declared as Vietnam Day.
So why was I there? It wasn’t for doing a tour of duty in Vietnam; I was born about a decade and a half too late for that. Besides age being a factor, though I probably didn’t know it at 18-years old, there was a hereditary disease slowly scattering throughout my retinas affecting peripheral and night vision; and very likely it would have pulled a 4F medical discharge anyway. If that wouldn’t have prevented being shipped out, eventually from mere survival of the fittest, some North Vietnamese soldier would have shipped me back in a box, carving my name in the Memorial Wall with the business end of his weapon.
I was at the Vietnam Day event by invitation from a grass roots effort, to come and play some music. Sort of a 1960’s protest style thing, only we weren’t protesting, we were joining the proclamation and recognition of the brave men and women who served in Vietnam.
A compilation CD of Vietnam songs had recently been released, designed to help heal emotional wounds and not let the world forget what suffering went on back then; and a song I co-wrote with two other writers (Mitch Townley and Judy Gorman King), was picked as the featured song for the CD. The song is entitled, “The Wall.”
Once the gear was set up out on the large grounds of the Capitol, we started playing. We played for children, fellow musicians, curious event attendees, friends and families of soldiers who stopped to listen, and then they came.
Mike, one of the gentlemen who gave the invite, rounded the corner with a group of Viet Vets. As they approached, battle earned metals clinked on silver haired gents as they jokingly milled about asking if I knew any Hank Williams; and then Mike said, “Brad, why don’t you play your song for these gentlemen?”
I will tell you, having played for many people at all kinds of gigs throughout the years, nerves had never been tested in this way before. Staring out with what vision was musterable, looking at this group of amazing souls standing before me who—all but a handful of decades ago were scared, brave young men watching their buddies tore apart right next to them in fox holes, on the battle field, and in transport jeeps—facing unknown emotional battles of uncertainty whether the local people there approaching them, men, women or children all equal in ability; were allies of safety, or enemies about to cut them down. Miraculously, here they were standing anxiously, staring at me expectantly, wanting to hear the song that was written just for them; and me desperately hoping we had gotten what they felt inside, right.
Swallowing hard and slow, raking a few strums on the guitar to get emotionally anchored, I started to sing:
When you were searching for my name today
I saw you standing there
Man you look different
With that silver in your hair
Me, I haven’t changed a bit
Still all of twenty-one
That’s the thing about us spirits
We’re forever young
At the wall …, here at the wall
Mid-way through the song with quivering lips and doubts I could even make it all the way through without choking up, I began to feel a reverence for these men stronger than ever before; men who endured not only a very different war out on the battlefield and in the jungle, but also the unexpected one of patriotic betrayal soon after the planes wheels screeched the tarmac back home.
I don’t think one strand of hair laid flat the entire length of the song but I did make it through to the end. When I finished, a nervous silence loomed for a second or two; wondering to myself, “Brad? What did you just do? You had better not offended them assuming you know what they feel inside.” The silence stood for a few seconds more and I was immediately swallowed up with soldiers shaking my hand 60’s style, giving pats on the back, and profusely giving thanks for writing the song. We snapped a quick picture with them, all the while me thanking them for their service, and that it was only a shame that the song had need to be written in the first place. That was one of the, if not the, most special experiences I’d ever had playing.
Prior to “The Wall” being written, I’d thought pretty heavy on writing a song about Vietnam. Considering it further, it seemed an obvious decision to write one dealing with the wall, maybe the Traveling Wall? Going back up on the National Memorial website, I spent hours up there reading profile entries that folks left for their loved ones. There were old goodbyes and present tense conversations: words from old high school buddies, family members keeping up a vigil, neighborhood friends who popped in after thinking about them, school teachers who wrote shortly after the news, and of course those uniquely bonded souls who served with them in the war …; excuse me …, “police action.”
Reading the entries was addictive, and more gripping than a Friday night suspense flick. Hopping up on the site before dinner, I didn’t pull away from the computer until the morning sun popped up. After spending the night reading droves of profiles of 21-year olds who never came back, the desire to write a song about Vietnam and the wall was there now more than ever.
As strong a desire it was to write a Vietnam wall song, I hadn’t told anyone of the plan. The goal was to have a solo write, so the idea never left the writing room. After a week and a half of knocking around some ideas and not really settling on any particular idea, an email came through from a songwriting buddy of mine. He said he ran into a poet at a veteran’s event in Nashville, got permission to use the poem as foundation for a lyric, and wanted to know if I wanted in on the song.
Stunned at the timing of this opportunity, I naturally agreed. A few days later we came out with our song entitled, “The Wall”.
I often wonder, after nearly two weeks of milling it around, surfing the web, staying up all night mesmerized by what I was reading, trying to pour my soul into the boots of those kids and their surviving families, not saying anything to anyone about my desire to write such a song about the Vietnam Wall, and then out of the blue to be approached with this opportunity? —I don’t know—is that just a simple coincidence? Or could there have been more to it than that?
The Wall has been played at a variety of places ranging from major commercial country radio, to web stations, to live performances at local memorial ceremonies, to my own gigs; and I am very humbled it will be performed by Silver Hammer, an east-coast youth band raising brows up and down the eastern port, as they play it as part of their invitation to perform at the National Memorial event in Washington DC this Veterans Day on November 11.
Hear the song in it’s entirety and read the lyrics at: http://www.braddunsemusic.com/music-45.html