57 1525-2 Nonesuch Records Inc., a Warner Music Group Company, 1633 Broadway, New York , NY 10019.

℗ & © 2018 Gabriel Kahane under exclusive license to Nonesuch Records Inc. for the United States and WEA International Inc. for the world outside of the United States.
Warning: unauthorized reproduction of this recording is prohibited by federal law and subject to criminal prosecution.
 Gabriel Kahane, piano and vocals

Produced by Tony Berg and Gabriel Kahane

Recorded by Gabriel Kahane in 2017

at Zeitgeist Studios, Los Angeles, CA

Engineered and mixed by Joseph Lorge

Mastered by Bob Ludwig

Design by Ben Tousley

Travel photography by Gabriel Kahane
Photography of Gabriel by Josh Goleman

All music & lyrics by Gabriel Kahane,

© 2016-2018 Magdeburg Music (ASCAP)

Special thanks to Yamaha Artist Services

for generously providing the CFX Concert
Grand Piano.
The morning after the 2016 presidential
election, I packed a suitcase and boarded
Amtrak’s Lake Shore Limited bound for
Chicago. Over the next thirteen days, I
talked to dozens of strangers whom I met,
primarily, in dining cars aboard the six trains
that would carry me some 8,980 miles
around the country. The songs on this album
are intended as a kind of loose diary of that
journey, and as a portrait of America at a time
of profound national turbulence.
—GK
 Cardiogram power lines, Roosevelt’s Tree Army, under the sun,
Heart of the department of the interior. The work would be done while America
When last we spoke
Glow-in-the-dark Casio, Bled by the greed of the rich,
I sang of end times,
Breathing fast. The boys planted trees and found God in the pitch,
Of cities washed away,
They stared at the sod in each fist—
When last we spoke Why am I telling you this?
The bloodless halls,
I sang of end times Is it that I’m nervous to be going back?
A flooded station,
Of cities washed away,
And that last train from L.A.
Back to Baltimore,
The bloodless halls, The tallboy convenience store,
Well, three years have passed
A flooded station, The indifferent, the endless war.
And here I am in the waiting room,
Could a train be an escape? And I know what that is,
Delayed with all the restless,
And I know what that is,
And I don’t need it anymore,
Some sixty eyes fixed
But I have to go home.
Hard and fast on the TV
I got the news on the satellite phone:
Playing something senseless.
Jason, come home, Jason, dear, Luke, I guess, got himself into a fight,
I heard it on the forest floor. Took him to the infirmary later that night,
Me, I dream of a broken watch
Nothing serious, sure, but next morning he died,
With hands like vines.
Six years of back country trails to the lake, Then the satellite phone with the crew,
Machete and snake, machete I learned Which meant I didn’t cry.
In the dream I see the
To cradle in the Old State Park.
The sweep of centuries;
I’m taking the train to take time for my thoughts,
I am a prehistoric bird.
Roosevelt, ’33, he had a plan Pregnant with loss, preparing for all
For every young man: The things that maybe make you feel.
And I wandered six lane
Give him an ax and a seed;
It would be generous to call them boulevards
Give him a pack and a tree; I’ll pay my respects and then I’ll take a walk,
With their dead-eyed metal herd.
Teach him to care for himself; The neighborhood block,
Give him fresh air for his health; And then I will leave.
I’ve come to peck the faces,
Send money back to family.
All of the faces off of every clock,
Then set myself to ponder
Back to Baltimore, The man who played with model trains
The golden shoals, the clouds,
The tallboy convenience store, In the furnished basement painted black—
The rotting dock.
The indifferent, the endless war. How it pleased him every day,
And I know what that is, The pattern of the rail,
Can you hear the carnival rising,
And I know what that is, The pattern of the tiny track.
The brutal fairgrounds aglow?
And I don’t need it anymore,
Sunburned families laughing at
But I have to go home. One night he slips and hits his head
The toy gun game stall,
As he reaches for a sleeper car,
Someone screaming below.
Luke was the son of some well-to-do folk; And the lights kept blinking red,
My family was broke, but we became friends, Now level with his eye,
And I want to tell you
The parking lot, the chewed up field. His miniature Place de la Gare.
About November,
The people that I met,
I started in the park just as he was going in, The kids knew something wasn’t right
A hard eight to ten for selling to kids; In the morning when he kissed them all,
And sleeping badly
My momma worked the county jail. He didn’t say a word.
On Pullman pallets,
Blue blanket caked in sweat.
And the model trains keep going round.
Showered, shaved, but sullied still,
With a fist of pink and blue and red.
And he will swallow every pill
To help him with his fear
Of getting from the bath to bed.
And the model trains keep going round.
Eyes cased in rime.
A face that’s chapped with tiger’s tears.
How his wife will mark the time
By learning how to love;
He’s been like this for seven years.
And now as a last resort,
She takes him to the ward in Redding
Thirty miles away.
And through, through the spidered glass,
The headstraps and the gas,
She watches as they put him under.
And the model trains keep going round.
She drives him home in the family car
Stealing glances at this body strange:
The vacant smile, the clean white scar
On the man who disappeared,
The man who played with model trains.
The man who made her laugh,
The man who played with model trains.
raise a black-heeled sky
put it up to the moon
shaking the sand
from your mind
delay, dead of night
when you reach
for the baedeker
leather bound book
from another time
red line for railroad Is that so much to ask—
black line for river To believe and be unashamed?
carving the country
sweetbread and liver Stay after church, for friends of friends of Bill.
I tell the story of my son, his need, the pain to kill.
maps that tell secrets How I saved all the money, a box in a drawer.
maps that run backward How I’d give it to him; knew what it was for.
learn to be lost now
learn to be shattered But he would lift my burden—
All the power, the comfort
a dream where you don’t feel right In his name.
on your knees in an open field Is that so much to ask
startled by silence To believe and be unashamed?
you don’t recognize
The visits get harder.
white light on a thousand lakes He lowers his eyes, and every time
like paths of glass that someone breaks They get darker.
before the barefoot contortionist I show him the pictures drawn by his kid.
makes her grand debut and
blood leaks from the frozen moon How do you learn you can smother someone
you think about the wound with your love?
and wonder who will die? Isn’t loving at all in this world hard enough?
amber nebraska Those neighbor kids, they meant no harm.
pink minnesota
mint green for kansas
blue north dakota
The flag was torn in a Tuesday tug-of-war
red line for railroad I was standing there in tatters when the carnie
black line for river took the floor,
carving the country Left my cellphone for a suitcase,
sweetbread and liver Checked the pockets for a clue—
There was an atlas;
raise a black-heeled sky It reminded me of you.
put it up to the moon
shaking the sand Chinese dragon inches toward the boarding gate.
from your mind Found my seat and told a joke to break the ice,
but it broke too late.
The punchline shattered on the carpet,
All our faces turned to shale
Those neighbor kids, they meant no harm. Up the Hudson for a furlough to the rail.
Came home from church to find a three-alarm.
To my sister’s, she gave us a key. 8980 on an overnight train
Three years, one room, two kids and me. Crawling back toward the national pain,
I’m a city boy swimming in the Laramie plain
But he would lift my burden— Looking for something —
All the power, the comfort What it is?
In his name.
I just wanna talk to you. We’ll listen for the long grey silence That my eldest son
I just wanna talk to you. to gather and increase Loves a white girl
I just wanna talk to you. And when it does we’ll close our eyes and rest Whom I adore,
in narrow peace But who lives in a part of town where
Smoke break breathing North Dakota in the snow. A black man might be mistaken for—
Is difference only distance from the people I don’t know? Little love, little love
‘Cause here I am with strangers Little love, little love ‘Cause they don’t need a hood or a cross or a tree.
Singing four-part harmony Little love, little love No, they don’t need a hood or a cross or a tree.
Of a pasture undivided to the sea. I hope we die here when we’re old,
Little love, little love And if I told you all of that,
8980 on an overnight train I hope we die here when we’re old. Maybe you would understand
Crawling back toward the national pain, Why I have limited sympathy
I’m a city boy swimming in the Laramie plain For your desire to know the suffering
Looking for something— Of the working white man.”
What it is? “What if I told you
I just wanna talk to you. That I’m on this train Monica explained
I just wanna talk to you. Because my two grown sons were frightened— In the dining car
I just wanna talk to you. Me driving through the night As we hurtled South
On a stretch of farm-stand highway In the growing dark.
Last light sinking in an unfamiliar bed, In Mississippi—
Crooked shoulder, crooked conversation
Running through my head, ‘Cause they don’t need a hood or a cross or a tree.
Gonna count the trees and taillights We are travelling, through a flat, beautiful landscape
Til the hour I’m left to dream What if I told you
Of that pasture undivided to the sea, That I’m headed to a funeral in Tupelo writes my grandmother
Undivided to the sea. On the hundred acre farm
Purchased by my great-grandfather Ancient forests; trees like bewitched figures, thickets
Who learned to read of shrubs
‘Cause his master’s daughter taught him secretly,
A long grey silence had ambled down the coast in 1939,
You drew in sand all the things we’d miss the most And not knowing
What kind of schooling Farmlands, small wooden houses,
Little love, little love His own children would receive, blue lakes, green village ponds.
Little love, little love He taught them never to sign
Little love, little love Their names on anything— her father arrested, then released.
I hope we die here when we’re old.
‘Cause they don’t need a hood or a cross or a tree. Now and then, cattle.
We’ll case the shore to record this holy place Earth covered with high grasses.
White cliffs and starfish, the tide like ruined lace And would he have believed
That his great-granddaughter— fake passports
Little love, little love All the way to the Ivy League?
Little love, little love Enchanting places, where one
Little love, little love And would he have believed would like to stop.
I hope we die here when we’re old. The millions of dollars—
And yet still unsafe a steamship from Hamburg to Havana
And when we’re frail in our lawn chairs by the sea On that stretch of farm-stand highway?
All twisted hands, shrunken spines, and halting speech, What if I told you
Now, a small wooden church,
Now, a village train depot.
six months on an island
I wish
then New Orleans
I wish I could
then a train to Los Angeles
I wish I could describe
where she keeps a diary
I wish
which I read on a different train
I wish I could describe each place to you
almost eighty years to the day...
•••
After school
They chant her name.
She runs home
She prays.
But caught because her father
Couldn’t quite believe
What ought to’ve been plain to see,
Til broken glass was at their feet,
And now they could not wait,
Some clothes and letters in a crate;
Left the cat and drove away.
Steamship.
Wool sky.
All seasick,
The tide.
She held her breath until
At last they’d got across,
But they weren’t allowed to dock,
All because the country didn’t want
To let those people through.
Ain’t that a familiar tune?
We have finished planting for the season,
I have to sing it back to you.
And now we make our way to Pasco, Washington
To see our distant relations
History
On our once-a-year vacation.
don’t have a chance.
Drowning in the false, fat
We took two buses and a train to get to this one.
present tense.
As long as we don’t drive, that’s alright within our creed.
When people stare at us we’re taught to look away,
And why would you need
But it’s hard not to wonder what they see.
To know anything
That happened any earlier
Singing with a stranger
Than late last week?
Singing with a stranger
Singing with a stranger
Lucky one,
From the false world,
She got in—
Some papers signed
Singing with a stranger
By distant kin,
Singing with a stranger
Singing with a stranger
And every night she wrote
From the false world.
Six postcards sent back home,
And when she read the brief replies,
My grandmother would start to cry,
The careful script it could not hide
The fear in every one
She read beneath the L.A. sun
Until the letters did not come.
History
don’t have a chance.
Drowning in the force-fed
present tense.
Why would you need
To know anything
That happened any earlier
Than late last week?
Than late last week?
Than late last week?
 For their support of the staged version of 8980: Book of Travelers, Thank You:

Linda and Stuart Nelson, Bill Cooney and Ruth Eliel, Diane and Adam Max, Jerry & Terri Kohl, the Kend
Family Fund, the Sonia Alden Foundation, the Jim Joseph Foundation, Ted and Mary Jo Shen, Simon Yates,
and Rudolph and Peekie Schaefer.

Special Thanks:
Daniel Fish, Nunally Kersh, Jim Findlay, Mark Barton, Jordan Fein, Mary-Sue Gregson, Julia Frey, Franky
Rousseau, Joe Melillo and the Brooklyn Academy of Music, Kristy Edmunds and the Center for the Art of
Performance at UCLA, Michael Kondziolka and University Musical Society, MASS MoCA, Rockwood Music
Hall, Henry Stram, Chris Thile, Rob Moose, Blake Mills, Alex Venguer, Cary Berg, Teri Meredith, Jonathan
Biss, Jim and Anne Bredouw, Martha Kahane, Jeffrey Kahane, Annie Kahane, Roscoe Greebletron Jones III,
and my best friend and partner, Emma Tepfer.

Finally, this album would not have been possible without the generosity of the dozens of strangers who
shared their stories with me during our respective journeys.