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Fair use - no copyright infringement intended. From Kris' debut album “Kristofferson“ (1970) No-one else has ever sung this song with so much sadness and despair in his voice... The scenes for my video are from “Cisco Pike“ (1971) “Trouble in mind“ (1985) “Heaven's Gate“ (1980) “Semi-tough“ (1977) “A star is born“ (1976) a tiny scene is from the bio -docu about Kris and a tiny effect is from “Millenium“ Kris said in an interview, “This song probably was the most directly autobiographical thing I had written. In those days I was living in a slum tenement that was torn down afterwards, but it was 25 dollars a month in a condemned building, and “Sunday Morning Coming Down“ was more or less looking around me and writing about what I was doing. One time, some people broke into that place, and I had to call the police station to answer some questions about it, and the guy said, “Yeah, they really trashed the place when they went in there.“ But I hadn't noticed that it was any different. There were holes in the wall bigger than I was. It was quite a place, so “Sunday Morning Coming Down“ is kind of more or less what I was living at that time. I guess it was depressing, I don't know, but the chorus was kind of uplifting. ... What I was really trying to do was to keep the feeling of loss and of sadness. For me at that time, it was the loss of my family and looking at a little kid swinging on a swing and his daddy pushing him. That was the feeling I wanted to get for the whole song. I think Sunday was the choice because the bars were closed in the morning and nobody was at work, so if you were alone, it was the most alone time...“ Sunday Morning coming down Kris Kristofferson Well I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head, that didn't hurt and the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad so I had one more for dessert then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt and I shaved (washed) my face and combed my hair and stumbled down the stairs to meet the day I'd smoked so much the night before, my mouth was like an ashtray I'd been licking (I'd smoked my brain the night before on cigarettes and songs that I've been pickin') but I lit my first and watched a small kid cussin' at a can that he was kicking then I crossed the empty street and caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken, and it took me back to somethin' that I'd lost somehow somewhere along the way On the Sunday morning sidewalks wishing Lord that I was stoned 'cause there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone and there's nothin' short of dyin' half as lonesome as the sound on the sleepin' city sidewalks Sunday mornin' comin' down In the park I saw a daddy with a laughing little girl who he was swingin' and I stopped beside a Sunday school and listened to the song that they were singin' then I headed back for home and somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin' and it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday. Sunday Morning coming down Ich wachte auf am Sonntagmorgen, fand keine Möglichkeit, meinen Kopf zu halten ohne dass er schmerzte. Und das Bier, das ich zum Frühstück hatte war nicht schlecht, so nahm ich noch eins zum Nachtisch. Dann tastete ich mich durch meinen Kleiderschrank nach meinen Klamotten und fand mein sauberstes Schmutzhemd. Und ich rasierte (später: wusch ich) mein Gesicht und kämmte meine Haare Und stolperte die Treppe runter, um den Tag zu treffen. Ich hatte die Nacht zuvor so viel geraucht, dass mein Mund wie ein Aschenbecher war, den ich ausleckte (später: ich hab die Nacht zuvor meinen Verstand verqualmt mit Zigaretten und Songs, die ich spielte) aber ich zündete mir die erste an und beobachtete einen kleinen Jungen, wie er auf eine Dose fluchte, die er kickte (Johnny fluchte nicht, er spielte nur mit der Dose). Dann überquerte ich die leere Straße und fing den sonntäglichen Geruch von einem Braten ein und der brachte mich zurück zu etwas, das ich irgendwie irgendwo auf meinem Weg verloren hatte. Auf den Gehwegen am Sonntagmorgen wünschte ich bei Gott, ich wäre berauscht. Weil da ist etwas an einem Sonntag, das einen dazu bringt, sich ganz allein zu fühlen. Und es gibt nichts so nah am Sterben halb so einsam wie den Klang auf den verschlafenen Gehwegen der Stadt, wenn man sich am Sonntagmorgen vom Rausch der letzten Nacht erholt. Im Park sah ich einen Papa mit einem lachenden kleinen Mädchen, das er schaukelte. Und ich hielt an einer Sonntagsschule und lauschte dem Lied, das sie sangen. Dann ging ich zurück nach Hause und hörte irgendwo in der Ferne eine einsame Glocke läuten, und das Echo hallte durch die Schlucht wie die verschwindenden Träume von gestern. Auf den Gehwegen am Sonntagmorgen...
