As Dudley’s son, I have experienced the lyrical storytelling of my father countless times. The way Dudley captured a room with his booming voice was trumped only by the way he set it to music. And oh what music it was. More than a few have witnessed the magic of having a days events turned into pros and chords—flung strumming out of a guitar played upside-down. He was so quick and prolific with his writing that only Dudley could know the full volume of his discography. In all the years I have seen him play, he always played his own work—save two covers: 1. All Along The Watchtower by Bod Dylan and 2. LA Woman by The Doors.\r\n\r\nOnce, while helping him work on our VW bus, I asked my father if he remembered songs that he wrote five years ago. His eyes darted, then squinting he said, “Son, how old are you now?” \r\n\r\n”Thirty”, I answered. His head tilted slightly back, eyes closed and then he suddenly started singing a cappella.\r\n\r\nWith long blond hair that brushes across my chest…\r\n\r\nWithin the first short burst of words, it was immediately clear that it was a song about my mother. Soon as the song ended, he gave a little context, telling me about when he lived in Michigan, working in county parks and the city sewers of Grand Rapids. He described his boss, a huge man with two beautiful daughters, then sang a song about him. \r\n\r\nYou ain’t no kind of man if you can’t pry up a man-hole-cover with just your index finger.\r\n\r\n”And he really could do it!”, he interrupted his song for a bit of the story he just remembered. Now acting out the scenes, caricaturing mannerisms and voices, the garage a stage. Story chasing song, rabbiting down the Dudleyhole of amazing tales.\r\n\r\nSo many songs. So may stories. Some scribbled on cocktail napkins, more than a few scratched in the margins of a day planner, most lost to stray leaves of coffee stained legal pads.\r\n\r\nI was with him in LA when he recorded Morrison Hotel. It was January 1991, the Persian Gulf War was in full swing. A rough mix was ready by the time I flew home. Two days later, I foolishly hand-delivered my only cassette to radio station WGRD. After all this time, I can only remember some of the lyrics:\r\n\r\nI read the whole story, I know the book well.\r\nI’ll be in LA Jim, at the Morrison Hotel\r\n\r\nThe surfers out here man, they ride a new wave\r\nEagle Rock and desert cave\r\n\r\nIt’s a real beauty, man, a poet like you\r\nPlay whisky a-go-go, drink that fine brew.\r\n\r\nOut here on the perimeter there are no stars\r\nOut here we is stoned. Immaculate. I-I-\r\nI read the whole story, know the book well.\r\n\r\nThere must have been other recording sessions. There must be someone out there that remembers fragments of songs like I do. If ever you stumble across a forgotten recording of Dudley. If one morning you remember the lyrics to one of his songs—even a if its just a hazy, partially remembered orphan line—I beg you please, please write it down and share it.Dudley was a man that sometimes had to sing for his supper. But maybe Dudley sang mostly to nourish a war ravaged soul. He sang for you, for me and for this, his legacy.