Will left Austin in 2014, retreating to an isolated ranch outside of San Angelo. Though removed from the lively Austin music scene, he kept writing and performing.
This was one of the songs he recorded on his iPhone and emailed out to a few people. He joked about compiling them into an album (to be called “iPhone,” of course), but mostly these recordings allowed Will to share new songs with select friends as he wrote them. The recordings acted more as demo tapes to elicit feedback. and workshop the song, than anything else.
Will drifts through a dream in this song, his imagery alternately concrete and unreal — like a dream. Like many of his songs, Will has embedded hints of his struggles with schizophrenia in here, featuring a homeless fantasy lover, an echo of a story he once told me of his days living in the shadows.
“Cry Home” — iPhone — Will T. Massey
I dreamt I was alone
At a dark, dusty country fair.
I met a girl
With short, straight, light blonde hair.
And she was old
But she was younger than me.
I checked my wallet
And God slipped in a ten to see.
Well, we bought some trailer food
But we didn’t eat it up.
We just strolled awhile talking
Ann Richards in Europe…
Well, she had a blanket garb
Falling off her shoulders
We started kissing in a tumble
To the dust where I could hold her.
Well, I knew that she was homeless.
I could feel it in her face.
Then she was becoming younger,
She had a warm embrace.
Cry home, cry home —
We’re all here alone.
No one will ever understand
You or your life.
I see her now without bones,
Cry home, cry home —
Baby, pleasure is the reason
I suffer this life.
She said, “Cry home with me awhile.”
And I wasn’t a bit surprised
When she showed me she was an alien
From brilliant, distant skies.
And then she had a perfect appearance
And my eye fell to her breasts,
She was gorgeous like a silver dollar
In the pocket of a vest.
Sadly, the dream was ending
In a long and lustful kiss.
I wanted to keep her around awhile
So I started writing this…
Cry home, cry home —
We’re all here alone.
No one will ever understand
You or your life.
I see her now without bones
Cry home, cry home —
Baby, pleasure is the reason
I suffer this life.REPEAT CHORUS
Please keep Will in your thoughts this Mental Health Awareness Month.
Buller's back porch 