Old Ways

Edward Curtis was a preacher's son
From the waters of old Minnesota
His father lived off the souls he'd won
But he died before making his quota
He left a civil war camera lens, a bible, a hat, and a paddle
His desperate family landed west
In that bright young town of Seattle

Now Princess Angeline was not her name
Kikisoblu was Chief See-ahth's daughter
She sat for photos, a dollar per frame
And wash sheets for a shack by the water
Such were her terms as she puffed cigarettes
And glowered for young Mr. Curtis
Soon after she passed with a big Catholic mass
And a face in the newspaper notice

It read the old ways are passing right before us
Like a bottle and some laughing drunken chorus
As the old one dies, drink deeply from her eyes
Through the bright and sober lens of Edward Curtis

So the princess made him famous, but she also made him think
Of songs from ancient languages that teetered on the brink
He couldn't save the people from a policy of crime
But the rituals and faces just might persevere through time
Such became his focus with a camera and a backpack
To catch the Hopi snake dance and the sun dance of the Blackfoot
The Nez Perce and the Inuit, the Mandan and the Crow
He took ten thousand pictures and everywhere he'd go

They'd sing the old ways are passing right before us
Like a bottle and some laughing drunken chorus
As the old ones die, drink deeply from their eyes
Through the bright and sober lens of Edward Curtis

J.P. Morgan, Upshaw, and Teddy Roosevelt
Three important figures far as Edward Curtis felt
Patrons and protectors came from power-wielding men
The little bighorn Indian was Edward's dearest friend
Upshaw was a native who had been to white man's college
Conflicted by some eloquence, some culture and some knowledge
He served as Edward's confidant, interpreter, and guide
Beaten by some sheriff in some jail cell, he died

He sang the old ways are passing right before us
Like a bottle and some laughing drunken chorus
As the old one dies, drink deeply from his eyes
Through the bright and sober lens of Edward Curtis

He published twenty volumes on his promise he made good
But he never made a dime until he moved to Hollywood
Italians played the Indians, producers wrote the songs
Then one day, the Seattle Times got his obituary wrong

They wrote the old ways are passing right before us
Like a bottle and some laughing drunken chorus
As the old one dies, drink deeply from his eyes
Through the bright and sober lens of Edward Curtis
As the old ones die, drink deeply from their eyes