Traffic

Traffic were an English rock band formed in Birmingham in April 1967 by Steve Winwood, Jim Capaldi, Chris Wood and Dave Mason. They began as a psychedelic rock group and diversified their sound through the use of instruments such as keyboards (such as the Mellotron and harpsichord), sitar, and various reed instruments, and by incorporating jazz and improvisational techniques in their music. Lyrics: Rainmaker, rainmaker Rainmaker, rainmaker Rainmaker, rainmaker The sky is gray just by the touch of your hand Rainmaker, rainmaker Rainmaker, rainmaker Rainmaker, rainmaker Make me some rain, make all my crops grow tall Rainmaker, rainmaker Rainmaker, rainmaker Rainmaker, rainmaker The sky is gray, the ground is so hard It's been cracked by the sun Rainmaker, you know my work's never done

Traffic drummer Jim Capaldi started writing this song in Morocco, where he was getting ready to make a movie called Nevertheless with actor Michael J. Pollard. The film project fell through, but did lead to one of Traffic's best-known songs. Said Capaldi: "Pollard and I would sit around writing lyrics all day, talking about Bob Dylan and the Band, thinking up ridiculous plots for the movie. Before I left Morocco, Pollard wrote in my book 'The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys.' For me, it summed him up. He had this tremendous rebel attitude. He walked around in his cowboy boots, his leather jacket. At the time he was a heavy little dude. It seemed to sum up all the people of that generation who were just rebels. The 'Low Spark,' for me, was the spirit, high-spirited. You know, standing on a street corner. The low rider. The 'Low Spark' meaning that strong undercurrent at the street level. Lyrics: If you see something that looks like a star And it's shooting up out of the ground And your head is spinning from a loud guitar And you just can't escape from the sound Don't worry too much, it'll happen to you We were children once, playing with toys And the thing that you're hearing is only the sound of The low spark of high-heeled boys The percentage you're paying is too high priced While you're living beyond all your means And the man in the suit has just bought a new car From the profit he's made on your dreams But today you just read that the man was shot dead By a gun that didn't make any noise But it wasn't the bullet that laid him to rest, was The low spark of high-heeled boys If you had just a minute to breathe And they granted you one final wish Would you ask for something like another chance? Or something sim'lar as this? Don't worry too much It'll happen to you As sure as your sorrows are joys And the thing that disturbs you is only the sound of The low spark of high-heeled boys The percentage you're paying is too high priced While you're living beyond all your means And the man in the suit has just bought a new car From the profit he's made on your dreams But today you just read that the man was shot dead By a gun that didn't make any noise But it wasn't the bullet that laid him to rest, was The low spark of high-heeled boys (heeled boys) If I gave you everything that I owned And asked for nothing in return Would you do the same for me as I would for you? Or take me for a ride And strip me of everything, including my pride But spirit is something that no one destroys And the sound that I'm hearing is only the sound The low spark of high-heeled boys (heeled boys)

Traffic were an English rock band formed in Birmingham in April 1967 by Steve Winwood, Jim Capaldi, Chris Wood and Dave Mason. They began as a psychedelic rock group and diversified their sound through the use of instruments such as keyboards (such as the Mellotron and harpsichord), sitar, and various reed instruments, and by incorporating jazz and improvisational techniques in their music. Lyrics: Sitting in a transit all night long Playing clubs and rocking right on The road's much too long since I've been wasting my time Wish I was home again sipping my wine And I'm gone, gone, gone, I don't care 'Cause I'm gone, gone, gone, I don't care It's where I'm from, I'm on the road again LA to London is a mighty long time Eight hours flying can bring you down Sitting near a suit who's a red-neck going Eyes are moving but there's no life showing Now that I'm home again Things are much better, biding my time with my little go-getter No matter what they say, no matter what they do Gonna end up in the middle of that rock & roll stew Gone, gone, gone...