Murder By Death_The Other Shore
Squeeze boxin, slue-footing, at times as if Gordon Lightfoot, lost sailor at see, a few turns it's Tull partying with some bluegrass, state-fair, honky tonk country western kinda fellas. All the while mandolin, creep box & homegrown down stroke light the way.
At times on the verge of spectacular, just a tad too nice to be construed wicked, yet that 'ol wisdom of where the swamp meets the desert, somehow shines through here, no matter where this crew comes from (I am bad to not read band histories, do more listening, when tunes are playin).
I hear some grooves time or two that lay claim to knowing bout that dark stuff, but tellin' the ho ho no-no, enough shit, here comes the man....bills are comin' due. I almost expected some lead guitar to just tear it up, but I get some folks kickin' some three strike boogie. And it keeps up that tirade of circumstance, throughout the entire program.
I hear talk about rivers, stones, getting there, having it done, here's to say you ain't the only one. Rollin' tobakker, half moons, dark moors n back-road bars. It gits her head spinning, maybe yers too, if it's just loud enough, when the strings n pipes come into play, for that just a taste, you get in line for more.
Couple times I wasn't sure if it was pianner, some cello, standup or someone breathin hard. I heard some words about places changing, and I know that scene. Then the sax (or is that violin?) comes in, it's got me. Only time mate, lived once, relived till the end.
And the guitar moans, throughout the entire life. But O hear them bows on strings, a sangin, puts me back in the haunted quarters, as spirits come to play.
When she rocks it up, brings me back to earth, and I hear them squeeze boxes a wheezin', kinda makes me wanna cruise with the windows rolled down.
Contact: https://www.bloodshotrecords.com
Squeeze boxin, slue-footing, at times as if Gordon Lightfoot, lost sailor at see, a few turns it's Tull partying with some bluegrass, state-fair, honky tonk country western kinda fellas. All the while mandolin, creep box & homegrown down stroke light the way.
At times on the verge of spectacular, just a tad too nice to be construed wicked, yet that 'ol wisdom of where the swamp meets the desert, somehow shines through here, no matter where this crew comes from (I am bad to not read band histories, do more listening, when tunes are playin).
I hear some grooves time or two that lay claim to knowing bout that dark stuff, but tellin' the ho ho no-no, enough shit, here comes the man....bills are comin' due. I almost expected some lead guitar to just tear it up, but I get some folks kickin' some three strike boogie. And it keeps up that tirade of circumstance, throughout the entire program.
I hear talk about rivers, stones, getting there, having it done, here's to say you ain't the only one. Rollin' tobakker, half moons, dark moors n back-road bars. It gits her head spinning, maybe yers too, if it's just loud enough, when the strings n pipes come into play, for that just a taste, you get in line for more.
Couple times I wasn't sure if it was pianner, some cello, standup or someone breathin hard. I heard some words about places changing, and I know that scene. Then the sax (or is that violin?) comes in, it's got me. Only time mate, lived once, relived till the end.
And the guitar moans, throughout the entire life. But O hear them bows on strings, a sangin, puts me back in the haunted quarters, as spirits come to play.
When she rocks it up, brings me back to earth, and I hear them squeeze boxes a wheezin', kinda makes me wanna cruise with the windows rolled down.
Contact: https://www.bloodshotrecords.com
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