Tag: fiction

You Gotta Hear This: New Music From John Cowan, Jason Carter & Michael Cleveland, & More

Posted on by Justin Hiltner

To close the month of May, we have an absolutely stacked round up of premieres this week!

It’s lovely any time natural and organic themes twist their way through our batches of premiere. This week, it certainly seems like cutting-edge bluegrass is front and center, with new tracks and videos from John Cowan, Jason Carter & Michael Cleveland, and husband-and-wife duo, Benson.

Plus, we have a trio of songs about touring, coming and going, leaving and returning – Rob Baird asking his listeners to “Hold Tight” ’til his return, Evan Boyer longs for home and hearth in a song for his wife, “Home to You,” and Rose Gerber pays tribute to a vagabond period in her own life with “Off to See America.”

Finally, don’t miss a danceable rockabilly number, “If I Didn’t Have You,” from Matt Hillyer and roots duo Native Harrow bring us a new music video for “Borrowing Time.” It’s a packed premiere round up this week and You Gotta Hear This!

John Cowan, “Fiction”

Artist: John Cowan
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee
Song: “Fiction”
Album: Fiction
Release Date: June 7, 2024 (single); Fall 2024 (album)
Label: True Lonesome Records

In Their Words: “The genesis of the song is that Eddie [Sanders] and I had sat down to write a song for this new recording that eventually was titled ‘Fiction.’ I have been a voracious reader my whole adult life. I was discussing with Eddie the problem of living in a world at this time, which is confounding, scary, and frustrating. My expansive bookcase is loaded with non-fiction books. I had just said to him that I can hardly stand to pick up these two new books I’d bought, ’cause I didn’t feel like I needed any more affirmation about the state of our country and the world. What I needed was an escape to a place of commonality with the people I’ve encountered and my loved ones. I think we did a good job on it and that’s all I know for now except, I always believe in hope and grace.” – John Cowan

Jason Carter & Michael Cleveland, “Give It Away”

Artist: Jason Carter & Michael Cleveland
Hometown: Floyd, Kentucky, now living in Hendersonville, Tennessee (Jason); Charlestown, Indiana (Michael)
Song: “Give It Away”
Release Date: May 8, 2024
Label: Fiddle Man Records

In Their Words: “I feel that the world we live in is a beautiful place, but it takes all of us to make that world. Every time I hear this song it brings a smile to my face, thinking of the day we recorded it. The room was filled with friends making music and the joy that was shared between us really comes through in the recording. This song was written by two of my favorite fiddlers, Tim O’Brien and Matt Combs, and that was another thing that made me feel like it was right for Michael and I to record it.

“Every time I’ve been around Sam Bush, I feel the love he puts out into the world and I thought he’d be the perfect person to sing this song with. I feel the same way about Michael, it’s always such a joyful experience to get to play or even hang out with him. With that said, ‘Give It Away’ sets the tone for the entire record, I hope you enjoy it.” – Jason Carter

“‘Give It Away’ is a hard driving bluegrass song in the key of B, except this time nobody leaves or dies. Instead, it reinforces the valuable lesson that if you want to ever find love, you have to learn to give it away. I would like to thank Bryan Sutton, Cory Walker, Alan Bartram, and Sam Bush for creating one of the most grooving tracks I’ve ever been a part of, they really made this song come to life. This song was a natural for twin fiddles, and Jason and Sam’s vocals are absolutely incredible.” – Michael Cleveland

Rob Baird, “Hold Tight”

Artist: Rob Baird
Hometown: Austin, Texas
Song: “Hold Tight”
Album: Burning In the Stars
Release Date: June 21, 2024
Label: Hard Luck Recording Company

In Their Words: “Early on in my career, I spent a lot of time in a van, touring all over God’s green earth. This song, ‘Hold Tight,’ is a reflection of those times. It’s about the chaotic feeling of driving through the night to get back home to one who’s been waiting for you. I wanted that feeling of desperation and determination to build every second of this song. Hold tight and hold on for just a few more hours.” – Rob Baird

Track Credits:
Produced by Brian Douglass Phillips.
Jacob Hildebrand – Electric guitar, slide guitar
Z Lynch – Bass guitar
Brian Douglas Phillips – Pedal steel, background vocals
Fred Mandujano – Drums, percussion
Sean Giddings – Organ

Benson, “Donner Pass”

Artist: Benson
Hometown: Boiling Springs, South Carolina
Song: “Donner Pass”
Release Date: May 31, 2024
Label: Mountain Home Music Company

In Their Words:“‘Donner Pass’ is a tune I wrote while traveling with IIIrd Tyme Out. We were heading back east after a west coast string of gigs and, with a little time to kill, decided to stop in Reno, Nevada. We parked in the same general area where the Donner Party had been trapped over the winter, so this felt like a great song title for a minor-key melody. I had been working on the tune itself for a few days as we played out our gigs in California, but the original cell phone demo was recorded at Donner Pass where we parked overnight before driving into town.” – Wayne Benson

“This is one of my favorite tunes that Wayne has written. It feels dark, which is appropriate considering the title and location that it’s written about. The track moves a lot dynamically and I always enjoy that — I love taking a fairly simple melody and working with it to create different moods.” – Kristin Scott Benson

Track Credits:
Wayne Benson – Mandolin
Kristin Scott Benson – Banjo
Cody Kilby – Acoustic Guitar
Tony Creasman – Drums
Kevin McKinnon – Bass

Evan Boyer, “Home to You”

Artist: Evan Boyer
Hometown: Somers, Connecticut originally; Dallas, Texas since 2010
Song: “Home to You”
Album: The Devil in Me
Release Date: June 7, 2024 (album)
Label: Medicine for Mary Records

In Their Words: “‘Home to You’ is a special song to me for a few reasons. First, the writing – it was the first song I really wrote for my wife. I’ve had others kind of about us or about our relationship, but I had never written one that focused on the fact that she’s my rock. Another is the production and the players I have on this track. Jenee on fiddle absolutely blew me away. Tim wrote that solo on the floor and then was able to perfectly replicate it two other times so that we could layer it three times. It’s stuff like that that’ll keep me making records for as long as I can.” – Evan Boyer

Track Credits:
Lyrics and music by Evan Boyer.
Produced by Bradley Prakope.
Recorded at The Panhandle House, Denton, Texas.
Evan Boyer – Vocals, acoustic guitar
Timothy Allen – Electric Guitar
Nate Coon – Drums
Bob Parr – Bass
Jenee Fleenor – Fiddle
Drew Harakal – B3 organ

Native Harrow, “Borrowing Time”

Artist: Native Harrow
Hometown: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Song: “Borrowing Time”
Album: Divided Kind
Release Date: September 13, 2024
Label: Different Time Records

In Their Words: “This is one of those songs that was written in a few minutes, recorded in an afternoon, and came together like it was always a song. The rhythm signifies a lazy, hazy walk through the fields, lost in thoughts and daydreams. It is loose and meanders its way with pedal steel swirls (Joe Harvey-Whyte) and a single snare drum played with brushes while the bass thumps its way along the dusty trail. I go on daily walks to clear my head and to be in nature. I never want them to end and am always a little melancholy when they do and I have to return to my to-do list. I feel things very deeply and in trying times it often feels like life is a giant wheel rolling down a road and I am either being plowed over by it or chasing to keep up and it doesn’t pay any mind to my own struggles. In writing this song I realized that maybe being lost is better than having it all figured out and we’re all just borrowing time.” – Devin Tuel

“We recorded ‘Borrowing Time’ on a hot, dry day last summer (2023), setting up in the living room, with the windows wide open to take in the little bit of breeze that snuck in over the hills that afternoon. We started with Devin’s vocal and guitar and my Hofner Beatles bass (no click track, of course), sitting a foot away from each other. So close in fact, that you can hear the faint clack of my pick on the flat-wound bass strings bleeding into the vocal track. Next, we added a simple snare drum with brushes (myself) and shaker (Devin), again around the same mic. Finally, we added the electric guitar overdub, my black Gretsch hollowbody guitar through our old Fender amp, with its drippy reverb and dense tremolo, before sending the track up to our buddy Joe Harvey-Whyte in London where he added his cosmic outer space pedal steel. Sometimes we like to spend weeks working on a track, adding as many layers as it needs, and sometimes a finished song (as in the case of ‘Borrowing Time’) comes together in a single afternoon. Either way, we’ll take them as they come.” – Stephen Harms

Video Credits: Photography by Rosie Lord.
Edited by Devin Tuel & Stephen Harms.

Matt Hillyer, “If I Didn’t Have You”

Artist: Matt Hillyer
Hometown: Dallas, Texas
Song: “If I Didn’t Have You”
Album: Bright Skyline
Release Date: June 7, 2024 (single); June 21, 2024 (album)
Label: State Fair Records

In Their Words: “I got my start playing rockabilly music. I’ve enjoyed playing many different styles of roots music over the years, but I always seem to gravitate back to that rockabilly swing. It just feels good and puts a smile on my face. It’s even better being able to have some great players and even better friends on it: Heather Stalling on fiddle, Kevin Smith on bass, Lloyd Maines on steel guitar, and Arjuna Contreras on drums. The song itself is a love song, and in my opinion, you can’t have enough of those. I was thinking about my wife when I wrote it. I was imagining a way to tell her how lost I’d be if I didn’t have her in my life.” – Matt Hillyer

Rose Gerber, “Off to See America”

Artist: Rose Gerber
Hometown: Portland
Song: “Off to See America”
Album: Untraveled Highway EP
Release Date: July 5, 2024

In Their Words: “When I was 17, I set out on a road trip that had no planned end. I was a high school drop-out running from a broken home and thought the romance of the road would save me. You can’t run from life though and the road wears you down. After thumbing around, riding freight trains and some lean times, I finally threw in the towel; but can’t say I regret a minute of it. This song is a tribute to that time of my life.” – Rose Gerber

Video Credits: Starring Mary Krantz and Just Clark.
Directed By Benjamin Olsen.

Photo Credit: John Cowan by Madison Thorne; Jason Carter & Michael Cleveland by Sam Wiseman.

BGS 5+5: Donovan Woods

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Donovan Woods
Hometown: Sarnia, Ontario, Canada
Latest Album: Without People (Deluxe)

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc. — inform your music?

I read a lot of fiction and journalism and I’m always writing down little passages in hopes of merging their feeling into lyrics in some way. I’d like to think that painting informs me, because I love it so much. I’m entranced by it, but I can’t think of any songs of mine which are directly influenced by paintings. Maybe I’ll try. I’ll try!

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

We played in London, UK a few years ago, we’d never had a real ticketed show there and we surprisingly sold it out. Brits are just better at being in crowds. Everyone sang, yelled and made us feel really great. So lovely to have that many people really present and enjoying the songs that far from home.

What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?

I think when I started to write songs that people liked. I would send them to friends and they would say, “I would actually listen to this!” and I was very encouraged. I was already in my 20s. It took me a long time to figure it out. It’s never particularly easy to me. I think this notion of “god being in the room” or whatever is really compelling but he doesn’t seem to come into the room for me. It’s just me and my brain trying to figure it out. The closest I come to “god in the room” is I get to write with Lori McKenna sometimes.

Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?

Swimming. I think swimming in bodies of water is the actual meaning of life. I walk a lot while listening to mixes. I feel like that’s the only way I can tell if it’s actually good. My wife likes to go camping. I don’t much like it.

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

I do what I want. It’s bratty, but that’s really it.

Photo credit: Briony Douglas

Rod Picott Feared This Might Be His Final Album

Posted on by Editor

Rod Picott writes from the heart, and that’s particularly true on his new album, Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil. A frightening heart condition – mercifully caught just in time – shifted his songwriting perspective inward, resulting in 12 news songs recorded with merely an acoustic guitar, a harmonica, and a storyteller’s voice.

That’s a familiar set-up to anyone who’s seen Picott perform over the last 20 years. The Nashville-based songwriter released his first album, Tiger Tom Dixon’s Blues, in 2001, and he’s toured almost constantly since then. While most of his albums are fully produced, Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil is almost whispered in places, inviting listeners to lean in.

Lately, Picott has turned his attention to writing fiction, poetry, and a screenplay, but music remains a central theme of his life and career, clearly evidenced by a conversation in a Nashville coffee shop.

BGS: I’m curious about the song “Ghost,” because it describes somebody who seems to be at the end of his rope. What was on your mind when you were writing that song?

RP: I was in the middle of [the health scare] when I wrote that one. I did feel there was a time during the making of this record where I thought it’s possible that this will be the last record that I get to make. And if that’s the case, what do I want to say? How do I want it to be? I realize that sounds dramatic, maybe overdramatic, but when you’re in the middle of it, it sure doesn’t feel like that.

Because you thought you weren’t going to live? Or you weren’t going to be able to sing?

Didn’t know. I mean, I knew something was wrong and I knew it had something to do with my heart. My blood work came in. The doctor called me at night. Of course they don’t do that. He’s the on-call guy and he basically said, “You need to stop whatever you’re doing right now. You need to drive to the pharmacy and pick up this prescription. I’ve already called it in. They’re waiting for you.” He said, “You need to do it right now or you might not make it through the night, because your potassium level is so high, it’s messing with the electrical signals to your heart.” A simple thing like that — potassium levels. Who would know? They eventually got it figured out.

Did it affect the way you sing, or your singing voice in general?

I was weaker when I was recording, to be honest with you, which might have played a role in how intimate the recording sounds. I’m singing pretty quietly on most of the songs. Not all of them, which is counterintuitive because the quieter I sang, the bigger it sounded, which is very strange. It’s like cinéma-vérité, like I’m actually living the thing that I’m singing about, and it’s playing a role in how I’m singing.

I can hear some of that, but it’s not like this album has 12 songs from the brink of doom.

No, no, there’s a range. And there’s one song from 20 years ago, “Spartan Hotel,” which never fit in any of the other records, but it felt right for this record. There’s a handful of songs I still like from back then, but they just haven’t fit on a project.

On “Mama’s Boy,” you’re singing about boxing and it reminded me of “Tiger Tom Dixon’s Blues,” from your debut album. What’s your relationship with those older songs now? Do you still like to play those songs from the early records?

I’m still proud of them, yeah. I still play those songs from that first record. I wish I could redo the performances now, because I think I’m a better, more honest singer than I was then. But when I moved to Nashville, or even before I moved, I promised myself I wasn’t going to make a record until I had 10 songs I thought were worth people hearing. So that served me well, even though it took me a long time to get there. That first record, the songs themselves still hold up. I still play them all the time.

What was it like for you to move to Nashville in that era? What was your impression of it here?

I was married at the time and obviously my wife came with me. I’d never been to Nashville. I didn’t know anybody that lived in Nashville. I didn’t even know anybody who knew anybody who lived in Nashville. So it was completely blind. We got a hotel downtown and went for a walk. And of course, in 1994, half of downtown was boarded up, old porno shops and stuff.

At one point on the walk, we were looking for a restaurant. You couldn’t even find a single restaurant. We couldn’t find any place to eat. She just stopped and started sobbing: “Why did you bring me here?” [Laughs] But over the next six months or a year, I figured out the lay of the land. Playing a lot of open mics, and meeting other writers and really working hard at trying to decode how the town worked.

How did you found your tribe? Just going out to open mics?

Yeah, for sure. That was a big part of it. And writers nights where they would have a little 20-minute spot, as opposed to just getting on the list. Those were better, kind of playing a mini set. It was a huge learning curve. I loved to go into the Bluebird Café. I used to go to the early shows at the Bluebird right after work and sit at the end of the bar. I was one of those classic guys with a notepad, which is really annoying to other songwriters, because they feel like you’re stealing the song. Which I wasn’t, I was just making notes about what worked and what didn’t. It was wonderful. Soon after that, I realized Nashville had John Prine, Lucinda Williams, Gillian Welch, and Guy Clark, and I thought, OK, this gives me a marker to shoot for.

In your work, there’s often a theme of your family and a theme of a work ethic — and a lot of times they’re in the same song. Is that something that was instilled in you?

I think it’s just you write what you know. That really defined my childhood. My father was a solid, blue collar union guy, in the pipefitters union. He was a welder and surrounded by other really hardworking men. So I’ve always been really interested in that, because I was a slightly unusual kid. I was very sensitive, which didn’t work with my father’s personality. I don’t think he really knew what to do with me. Now I can look back and see the kid that’s me, and I can think, “Well, now I understand it. I was an artist.” But I was just a kid. I wasn’t there yet, so it was a very uncomfortable relationship for a long, long time with my father.

I’ve always been interested in those themes. Also I was in the construction world for a long, long time, for almost 20 years. I was a sheetrock hanger and finisher. Having an artistic nature and working in the construction world is a very, very tricky balancing act. I had to learn how to be tougher, which wasn’t my nature, really. I learned when you had to stand up for yourself and not get run over, but it was uncomfortable. I always felt like I had one foot in the arts and one foot in this working world. I took it seriously and I was really good at it. I loved walking out of a job and seeing those clean lines and knowing I did the best I could, and that the painter was going to have a really easy time with the job.

That’s pride in your work.

Yes. And that’s part of your inner makeup. That’s either there or not. It’s not something you can fake or create.

You’ve been doing making music as you’re living for a while now. What’s your secret?

You almost have to be in a state where you can’t not do it. I do remember having a really specific moment before I put the first record out. I was 35 years old and I had been in Nashville for six years then, I guess. I did have an afternoon where I had this sort of “come to Jesus” moment where I thought, “Man, if you’re not going to do it now, you’re not going to do it. Like, today. You start today.” I remember the feeling coming over me, and it was almost like panic, realizing that I hadn’t started yet, not really. I was learning and I was working hard at it, but I wasn’t really committed to it. I was sort of testing it to see if I could do it. That afternoon, I committed to it and I never looked back.

Photo credit: Stacie Huckeba

Bad Listener: Episode Nine

Posted on by Editor

After firing shots at the moon, I understood that this story was at an end.

The police in this part of Missouri were waiting on me, surrounding the hill’s slope where there had been girls once, many fireflies long ago (the only miracle I’ve known), the water tower nearly touching the moon, so near the house of Martha and her mother. What ate me up was not so much that Sheriff O’Connor and his gang caught me, but that I would be sent away childless, without progeny, single, imageless. Brindle sat in the jalopy and put his paws against the glass and barked as I was cuffed and questioned.

The moon was the plate into which I once stared and saw the face of what might have been. Sound of water. Coulter’s Creek, just down the way, softly grumbled and received its life from other sources of its blood-water. Regret surged in my chest like a nest of poisonous snakes.

The sheriff asked what I was doing near Martha’s mother’s house. He had a leathery, taut face, sad eyes that regretted that he would have to take me into the squad car and to the jail; eventually, he would drive me to Joliet, Illinois. The charges against me, though you aren’t allowed to know most of them, added up to a good deal. Tax evasion, breaking a restraining order, unlicensed weapon, et cetera, et cetera. If only O’Connor knew. There was much, much more.

But it wasn’t the list of criminal accomplishments that burned. I had wasted my life. Have you ever actually admitted that? That’s what really killed me under the pre-dawn sky that burned all around with sirens and cars, lights like signal fires surrounding the hill and fields near Prospect Heights. There were no prospects and few heights, as most subdivisions are inadvertently contradictory. You know what I am trying to say.

The sheriff’s voice sounded insect-like, due to decades of heavy smoking and, in the end, he filled the rest of his forlorn days with regret that it had been him who’d caught up with me. He had pulled me over in my younger days and poured my beer out on the roads. We had been friendly and he had even seen me play baseball so long ago with the other kids who yelled and hollered in the green, green fields of Summer. Snow started to come down and it was almost as if O’Connor was disappointed in me, himself, life.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff.”

“I am too, Harry. Damned sorry about all of this,” his voice creaked. “You should’ve laid low and kept working and not come here to all of this.”

“I wanted to see Martha.”

“Why in the hell …?”

“… I guess I missed her. I know I did, in fact. But things are over before they end.”

“What do you mean?” he croaked nervously.

“A lot of the stars you see are dead, even though you don’t know it.”

“So what?”

“We’re made of that stuff. Stardust. They died so we could live.”

“Do you believe in God, then?”

“I suppose I do. I just dislike Him.”

“Chrissakes, Harry. He goes and kills the stars so we can live, and you dislike Him?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I don’t know how that all works.”

“You should know about this shit, Harry.”

“So he made the stars? The ones I fired at?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then the both of us are wasteful destroyers. Can you see me back here?”

“Yes.”

“There’s the difference, Sheriff.”

We drove on past the suburb, the fields and, as I glanced back, shackled in the car, I swore I saw a figure in the window of that house I was attempting to get to. I heard a cry that swallowed the universe. I was busted. In the cell that night, I cried out to what I disliked or hated, even, and nothing stirred and the world went spinning on its axis and it was cold inside and out. I was as wasteful as God, and we both knew it.

I won’t tell you about Joliet. It makes me sick. This place is the opposite of making sentences. What I mean is that I felt good this past year making sentences, writing, and I felt they — the sentences — made me a better person. Or at least writing made me able to keep going. Now it’s the sound of a different type of machine for washing dishes, and the faces here scowl and the voices howl out and the hatred is palpable. I walk the yard and wait. Faces in the turrets and towers. Wire. Razor wire and barbed wire and no mail and it’s so goddamned cold, and still I wonder what happened to Brindle and the rest of my life. Woof.

Catch up on the whole first season of Bad Listener by reading from Episode One.

Photo courtesy of Sundve via Foter.com / CC BY-SA

Bad Listener: Episode Eight

Posted on by Editor

Once, I lectured to my students about the histories of certain families or the history of the family within Shakespeare’s Hamlet. I was entirely unqualified to do this, but there was one persistent theory that drove my speech — and that was the utter collapse of the stable home life, the disintegration of mothers and fathers, the selfishness that can be inherent and persistent in our hearts, that chokes the heart like a great knot of weeds and ends up ruining us. I couldn’t help it. I kept talking in order to kill the entire period. Sally, one of those better students — curious, disinterested in grades and points — asked about my parents toward the end of our class. I told her to re-read Hamlet. Sally, eager to please her teachers, laughed in a nervous way. Our time was up. The students filed out like ducks or stooped, arthritic figures. Generally, the boys wore capacious jeans and logo-tees; some of the girls dressed to impress or interest the boys who, in general, noticed nothing. I stared out of the windows and saw a kite trapped in the crotch of a tree. This meant nothing.

I would have told Sally this, though: that this is my mother in this particular photograph, holding me in the sun. This is my mother, who looks like Joan Baez and the Virgin, who laughs in the soft light of the Polaroid, and I am laughing with her. Or rather, I laugh with them … a feminine-trinity of the folk singer, the mother of our Lord, and I laugh with my mother who is present in the photograph. I am still laughing, to think I once had the gall to talk Shakespeare and other fine things to the students at the community college. I was born laughing, scoffing even. I have read of a debate that took place between two scholars, two adversaries who farted their opening remarks and cross-examinations. This seems right to me: Watch the news, listen, be alert. The stench of the world lies in the mouths of most pundits. I can only laugh today.

Once, a teacher in high school told me that laughing would not get me through my days. He’s six feet under now, after living out his time with a verbally abusive, domineering wife, and I am quite alive and going to see Birdcloud — a band with which I’m totally unfamiliar — with my nephew this evening. He insists I’ll love them. I have the day off from Eddie’s and am getting ready to clean the apartment that has become such a mess over the last few months. This is the gun my father bequeathed to me, a Smith & Wesson 9mm. I loved my dad, the way he used to refer to Brindle as “Mr. Brindle” in an ironic voice as the pup would wag its bit of tail, the way he took care of me when I once was ill for months — the photograph of my mother was taken by him. I truly miss him now. We hoisted his coffin and it was heavy the way memories are heavy, not only the body but time, time, time rioting within the wooden casket. That’s why I haven’t been cleaning lately. There are too many reminders of my losses around here. But today, I feel, is different. It is a day to make amends, to hustle around, to clean and think about what must be done. "What must be done must be done," I say to Brindle. He agrees and then sleeps into the afternoon on the dusty leather couch.

At 7 pm, my nephew picks me up in his “Creed Truck.” This machine — an old Chevy with rust and dents — has become infamous for somehow channeling the music of Creed whenever I enter the cab. After a minute or so of “With Arms Wide Open,” after being able to hear the under-bite of Scott Stapp coming through the speakers, we begin to laugh. This stuff — this music — has always been ridiculous. But Scott and I are not so far apart. At the end of the day, we’re both crazy. Snow falls, dimming the streets. I am wearing a gray blazer, jeans, cowboy boots. Tony Lamas, ma'am. So is my nephew, for that matter. We are a duo of scoffing, howling maniacs. And I can’t say we’re not ensemble quite dapper dudes.

We enter the club where numerous bodies brush against other bodies.

“That’s them,” my nephew says, gesturing to the two girls at the bar, beautiful girls.

“Who?”

“That’s Birdcloud.”

“And …?”

After several drinks, he and I lean against a wall waiting for the duo to start. They sing gorgeously — one plays mandolin, the other guitar — and they face each other while they play, as if they were lovers, best friends, something like that. A song begins about being pulled over by the police: The refrain is something like, fuck you cop, what you gonna do? What must be done must be done. The crowd howls and laughs with each satirical song, and I begin to wonder about how Birdcloud must feel about this particular audience. They — the audience — are collectively smashed and have bovine, dumb faces weighed down and bloated with stupidity and drugs and alcohol. I find Birdcloud’s music good enough to be played in a symphony hall, not a hole-in-the-wall dump like this. We should all be laughing in a great space, like the space in which I saw Rachmaninoff for the first time. Who set up all these peculiar rules?

I am as sharp as a cracked white plate tonight — my nerves are even and I will do what needs to be done. I feel the country calling me out to its vast, cold spaces even as Birdcloud sings another song … something about Jack White retweeting their tweets. I know this sounds impossible, but after the show, after filing out of the club into the night, we get in my nephew’s ride, and immediately Creed plays some terrible song about jumping from an edge. If only they had.

The faces of the women in Birdcloud are etched into my mind’s eye. Kind faces, too good for the environment they got stuck in tonight. Some fights broke out. I shoved a man to the ground and told him I would end him, if he bumped into me again. He scurried into the bathroom, and his ridiculous mustache had cocaine on it. What a cheap type. I was once his double.

Alone in the apartment, the freshly clean apartment, I play "Damn Dumb" off the EP my nephew has leant to me. Brindle cowers in the corner or is fearful of something. I pick up the phone and call Martha. What must be done must be done. You’re damn dumb, so goddamn fucking dumb. No answer. Dial again. No answer. I leash Brindle and then put the holster back on. I get in my own jalopy and head toward the country. The wheat fields glisten with ice on the edges of the stalks. I know it must be warm where Martha is, at her mama’s. A lone hawk soars across the stars and I am smoking like a demon. I turn onto a gravel road, far from the city, kill the engine, and begin to think about these places. I must right what has been so wrong. I must do what needs to be done. I pull my father’s 9 from its holster, point at the great moon that hovers over the detritus of a cornfield, and fire. Little did I know that moon and sun and stars — my bit of the universe — would come crashing down as I would fire up the jalopy with the pup at my side, waiting on an answer, a reckoning that was long overdue. I am so dumb, so goddamn fucking dumb.

Click here to read Episode One. Photo courtesy of UnknownNet Photography / Foter.com / CC BY-SA

Between the Lines: ‘Cocaine Blues’

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It was Christmas Eve. A silent snow blanketed the yards in South St. Louis while occasionally one could hear boots crunching along the sidewalks in the darkness. Henry and Larissa sat together around the coffee table, looking down at the bag of cocaine and the money — single dollars — ready to be rolled into tubes. This is how far they had strayed, like terrible horses, on the night of the birth of Christ, some calling him Lord, worshipping Him at midnight mass. A terrible feeling of hunger, worry, and rebellion hung around the air in the apartment. Snow began to fall, white and soft, and it did not stop until morning. Henry began to wonder if this would kill him. His heart raced, his brain felt ill. Larissa — no novice to the drug but certainly no aficionado — watched the snow outside through the windows, and occasionally shed a tear, missing desperately her mama. A lone SUV sailed down the icy street like a great, pale hull sliding along the moat where a fire hydrant had burst and stopped and frozen. The vehicle went running on and disappeared.

Earlier that evening, Larissa met her connection at a bar downtown. A few skeletal men sat coughing and drinking at the counter. She undid her scarf as she entered and shook out the snow from her blonde hair. The dealer was a dirty, bearded man who sat in a back booth and signaled to her without seeming to look up from his paper. Something about Tangiers. Something about the history of the Straits of Gibraltar. Some picture of a great, colorful boat on the cover that didn’t seem to fit the coldness of this heavy season.

“Well, as I live and breathe. It’s my love, my heart, Miss Larissa,” Randolph muttered, still staring at the paper with its boat. “You get around, don’t you? Something on the brain?”

“I feel sick even doing this,” she said. “Here.” Larissa put down a hundred dollar bill and waited on a gram. He pulled it from his great coat and laid it on the table.

“You know,” said Randolph, “they say this kills you but not when.” He laughed and pushed the bag of white toward her.

“At least you’re quick,” Larissa muttered. “I might even say efficient.”

“How was your morning?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how was it? What did you do?”

“I woke up. I woke up and jumped out of bed and felt pain in my legs due to all this damn cold around us.”

“Well, this should help with all of that.”

“No. None of this is any damn good. What a Christmas.”

“It ain’t for men.”

“What does that mean?’

“None of this — the cold, the season, that — none of it’s any good. But you be careful. Bye now.”

He looked back into the paper and rolled the hundred in his fingers, absent-mindedly. As Larissa opened the door to the bar, the cold roared in and the skeletal men looked up abruptly from their beers. They coughed and looked back down. Her breath hung in the air like smoke. The car seats were as cold as the man who’d sold her the cocaine.

She went into the apartment and could spy Henry then, sitting nervously around the glass table. He was reading the Bible, some verse about the day being sufficient to the evil thereof.

“Do you want to start?” she asked Henry.

“Not really. Not tonight. I’m frightened for some reason.”

“I paid rent today.”

“It’s not the money,” said Henry. “It’s the feeling I have that this is not the right night for it.”

“When would be a right night?”

“I don’t know. Not now, though.”

That evening their Christmas tree flickered with lights as Henry and Larissa held onto each other in their cold bed. They made love and then got up to eat a late breakfast at one in the morning. They went back to bed. Larissa prayed while Henry slept, muttering something about disappearing and life out West and a better time of things. They didn’t open anything, any of the gifts that sat silently beneath the boughs of the pine. It was over.

Story based on "Cocaine Blues" which was written by T.J. Arnall and recorded by Johnny Cash, Townes Van Zandt, Woody Guthrie, and others. Photo credit: amseaman / Foter / CC BY-ND.

Between the Lines: ‘Pretty Pimpin’

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I woke up this morning, and didn’t recognize the man in the mirror. Feeling more like the boy who played outside my window during those summer days … pretending to skateboard, lighting off firecrackers in the streets when he thought nobody was looking, sharpening wooden knives on the pavement and placing them in his red wagon for sale next to his driveway.

Those younger years were spent looking forward, never backward. I gotta say, back then, all I wanted was to just have fun. I was living my life like a son of a gun. When the fellas asked how you were doing, it was always “I’m pretty pimpin.” They were a different bunch. All I ever wanted was to be a man. I laughed more then. Now who’s in the reflection? Oh, silly me — that’s just me. Age has a way of sneaking up on me, it seems. I proceeded to brush some stranger’s teeth, already forgetting that they were my teeth, feeling weightless from the morphine stream that was moving through me.

I was a dreamer, going to bed every night with big plans. Then I woke up one morning in panic — it was a Monday, no a Tuesday, no Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Questioning my existence and reasons for everything. It wasn’t til the proverbial Saturday came around that I left my panic behind with the rest of the world before the next episode.

Unless you come from money, it’s hard to have any personal space in this place. There is one bathroom for every four tenants in this “not a hospital for old people.” About every other day, I find myself asking, “Who’s this stupid clown blocking the bathroom sink?” or “Maybe this is the last time I’ll have to listen to the muttering on the other side of this curtain.” When you hit half a century, I think feeling lonely starts to correlate directly with becoming senile. At least that’s the messaging I’ve started using on my kids to get them to visit me more often. Asking outright never was my style. I’m more of a Catholic guilt guy.

My oldest son is the only one that comes regularly. I know he misses me because he’s sporting all my clothes. All he ever wanted was to be someone in life that was just like his dad. I think he’s gotten a little crazy in his 40s, though. For example, during our regular debates, he says the strangest things like, “I could be 1,000 miles away but still mean what I say.” I couldn’t tell you what the hell it was supposed to mean. Anyone would agree he was always a thousand miles away, while still standing in front of your face. Fortunately, he was a little too cute to be admitted under marbles lost, his idiosyncratic hyperbola makes me smile.

For how self indulged I’ve been, it's funny, I’ve always looked outside of myself for the truth. Only now, when my doctor has given me an expiration, do I see the pace at which things have come and gone. The opportunities, memories, friends, senses, values, promises, dreams. They never seem to last as long as I want them to, but it reminds me how far I’ve come and what I’ve discovered.


Story by Kris Orlowski based on "Pretty Pimpin" by Kurt Vile. Photo credit: Diego3336 / Foter / CC BY.

Between the Lines: ‘Easy Money’

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I never would have guessed in a million years we'd be caught up in this way of surviving.

She put on her coat. I put on my hat.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, glazing over my eyes, only seeing the outlines of who I'd become. A thief. A thief in unassuming demeanor.

She put out the dog. I put out the cat. I lit my last cigarette and threw the empty pack on the kitchen table.

“I see you put on your red dress for me tonight honey,” I said to my partner in life and crime, attempting to add what little warmth I could to an otherwise cold-blooded way to live. Despite any attempt to romanticize the night, I am left with only the comfort of a pull from my last cigarette.

“We’re going on the town now,” she said while opening the garage door. “Looking for that easy money.” Offering me that stone cold tone of confidence and of manifest destiny … a tone one could only hope for coming from your accomplice.

The last patron had stumbled out of the saloon, and I knew the only one left in there was “the boss.” At least that's what they call him. I’ve been staking the place out for about a month, and I know if he escorts the last person out and locks the door, the next scene is he's counting the profits — not only from his liquor sales, but from the dirty deals he's doing out the back door. Twenty minutes later he's headed home with a bottle and a briefcase.

The last light inside the saloon is shut off. We walk arm-in-arm giving illusion that we are merely a couple arriving a little too late for their night cap. She reaches her hand into mine and whispers close, “There’s nothing to it, mister. He won’t hear a sound when his whole world comes tumbling down. And all them fat cats, they’ll just think it’s funny.”

With the last boost of confidence and blood in my stare, I watch him step outside and lock the door behind him. Clockwork … a bottle and a briefcase.

“Oh hey, any chance we could …” I say only to be interrupted by him now facing toward us half-annoyed,

“Closed for the night, come back tomorrow.”

We walk closer to him with one arm still in each other's and my other hand in my jacket pocket.

“Mister … sir. I don’t think you understand. I got a Smith & Wesson .38. I got a hellfire burning and I got me a date. Got me a date on the far shore where it’s bright and sunny.”

With my .38 pointed at him, and my other hand now free, I finish where I left off: “Dirty money stays dirty. Now hand over the briefcase. You can keep the bottle. We're going on the town tonight, looking for easy money.”

Story by Daniel Rodriguez of Elephant Revival based on "Easy Money" by Bruce Springsteen. Photo credit: Vince_Ander / Foter / CC BY.

Between the Lines: ‘Diggin’ on the Mountainside’

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The top of Cardigan was bald, it had burnt 20 years before, and nothing grows fast on New England Mountains. We sat on a wide, smooth rock. He pointed to a spot halfway up across the valley where several large patches of trees had been cleared. “That’s our new work site.” He shook his head. “Rich folks digging on a mountainside.”

“Did they come to build their castles?” I asked.

“Way up high.” He handed me a water bottle from the little backpack we had taken turns carrying.

“We just finished one on the other side that you can’t see from here. Those people won’t even live in it except on vacations, but it’s bigger than three of our houses. A log cabin with a ballroom. Those people were born to see their silver shine.”

I finished rolling the joint of mellow brown weed I had bought from a kid we’d both gone to high school with.

“They aren’t going to live in it?” I asked.

“No. Till these folks, they’re coming in from out of town.”

I looked across the valley to the bare spots, where they had cleared the timber. I had just dropped out of college. I was home for a visit before I moved out West with a friend. My car was parked in my parents' driveway, the back seat filled with camping gear and art supplies.

He lit the joint. It was burning straight … I had learned something in college. “They strip the ground, too. Good luck to all the folks living in the bottom of the valley. Those wells are going to be all mud by next year, is my guess, but they keep building higher and higher. The roads just keep going up. On into the sun they climb. The ones you see there aren’t even the highest.”

I’d known Paul most of my life. We had grown up next to each other, but I had never really sat and looked at him. His skin was so smooth — he had dimples, curly sandy hair, and green eyes. When he smiled, he was really cute … classically cute. There was a reason he had dated the field hockey players in high school.

He took another long drag off the joint we had lit.

“It’s just like in the days of old,” he began again.

I snorted. “What did you say? In the days of old?” I laughed, and he did, too.

“Okay, okay. But it is like when they first came to look for gold or coal or whatever they can dig to make them richer. Now they dig foundations and new roads. Seems they’re never satisfied.”

“I don’t get it, Paul. You’re 22. You don’t have to be here. You can go anywhere, and you definitely don’t have to build for those people.”

He didn’t look at me. He was more torn up than he was letting on. He was feeling something in his chest he wouldn’t show on his face — his smooth face with the deep dimples. I had struck a nerve.

“Yeah, still…” Paul loved this valley. He had never left. “I help them move their dirt. I hate it. I tell the boys I hate it, but I need the work. I pay my debts and I close my eyes.”

He looked at me for that last one. That’s when I knew he liked me. He liked being with me, and he cared what I thought, and he hoped I wouldn’t judge him because he put on his gloves and told himself it would only be until he got ahead.

“What kind of debts?” I asked. He took a deep breath and stood up. I noticed there were some dark circles under his eyes. Too dark for a 22-year-old with dimples. He offered me a hand, but he didn’t answer me. He turned around in a circle on top of the peak. “If I could just climb mountains, I would. I fucking love being on top of a mountain. There should never be a road to the top of a mountain. If you want this, you should walk.”

I wished he would kiss me, but I didn’t know how to tell him.

“I guess there’s nothing that the past can do.” He was facing away from the clearcuts, to the valley on the other side. The trees were just beginning to change. They were still green, with tips of crimson and gold.

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“It’s something my mother says.” His pants were still dirty from work site. Even after a wash, the dirt leathered the knees of the canvas. “She probably means what’s over is over and it can’t hurt you anymore. But you can look at it the other way, too. The past is kind of helpless. It can’t defend itself.”

“Oh.“ I turned away from him. I didn’t mind the seriousness. This was a good moment. As soon as you notice it, a moment will stand still for you. Time likes to be admired. But it always moves on. The present is always gone too soon. The next day I’d be putting my Bob Dylan tapes in the car stereo and trying not to cry when I said goodbye to my mother. He would be putting his head down and climbing onto a backhoe.

“What is next? What’s in the future, Paul?”

“The future is a bullet, and it just flies.”

“You are high.”

“Well, yeah.” We both laughed.

“I’ll be back.” I still wished he would kiss me.

“I’ll be here.” He wanted to kiss me, too, but he wouldn’t do it.

Story by Jes Raymond of  the Blackberry Bushes based on "Diggin’ on the Mountainside" by Town Mountain. Photo credit: etharooni / Foter / CC BY-ND.

Between the Lines: ‘I Should Live in Salt’

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“Don’t make me read your mind. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

I don’t answer him right away. It’s hard for me to put my thoughts into words and I want to do my best to get it right. He bites his lip when it takes me too much time.

“I’m thinking,” I manage. “You should know me better than that.”

He sighs. “I should know you better than that.” He looks angry and sad. “You’re not that much like me, you know? People always say we’re so much alike, but it isn’t true.”

I nod but say nothing. He’s right — we are very different, but that’s not what I wanted to say. That’s his point, not mine.

“Can you turn the TV down?” I ask. He blinks a few times before standing up and walking over to our shabby old TV. Everything we own is old and shabby. The news is on and I can’t stand it. It’s always something heartbreaking these days. You tell yourself it’s only noise, but there’s too much crying in the sound. He pushes the power button harder than necessary and the screen goes black. I can still see the outline of the faces that were there only a moment ago, delivering our daily dose of depression through plastic smiles. Or maybe I can’t. I don’t know.

“Look, maybe we should try something else? Maybe you should try writing down what you want to say?” He’s calmer now. He’s been doing his exercises. Deep breathing, counting to 10, all that stuff. He grabs some paper and some pens, walks across the living room and puts them in front of me. I look at him with doubtful eyes.

“Just try,” he says.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Why not?”

I hesitate.

“Why not?”

“There’s no room to write it all.”

“No room?” He’s mad again. “No room? What are you talking about? When did you start to slide outta touch? Why do you have to be so …“ He takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw. After a few seconds of silence, he starts again. “I should leave it alone, but you're not right. You know you’re not right. There’s plenty of room. If you run out, I’ll get you more paper. If you can’t write it there, then write it on the damn wall, for all I care!”

He slumps down onto the couch and puts his head in his hands. It’s quiet for a few minutes. I like quiet. It’s easiest for me to think when there are no other sounds.

I don’t understand how people can use those ocean sounds to help themselves fall asleep. I could never do that. I need it to be absolutely silent. I guess we have different enemies. Mine is noise. Apparently, everyone else’s is silence. I think they should all learn to appreciate the void. “Please.” His head is still in his hands. “Please, just write something.”

I pick up a pen and push it to the page. It takes me a long time to think about something so much and the words aren’t coming out right. I start and stop several times. I can see him biting his lip again. I finish writing and put the pen back down. He stands behind me and reads the words out loud. “I should live in salt for leaving you behind.” He sounds confused. He looks from the paper to me and back down. “You should live in salt? What’s that supposed to mean?”

I’m quiet again. It doesn’t sound right when he reads the words out loud. I put my head down on the table and close my eyes.

“For God’s sake. Salt? Leaving me behind? What that hell does that mean?”

I say nothing.

“You get these ideas in your head. You tell yourself these things and then you just sit there in silence and I’m supposed to figure it out? Why does it have to be so difficult with you?”

I say nothing.

The table is cool and feels good against my skin.

“You should know me better than that.”

Story by Joshua Hyslop based on "I Should Live in Salt" by the National. Photo credit: / Foter / CC BY.