or (B is for Banjo), or (B Sides), or (Bill), or perhaps more accurately (...the eschatology of Bluegrass) A comes before B. B follows A. This is the essence of sequential ordering. You might say that B's being B is a direct consequence or undeviating result of A's being A. Its happening and meaning comes from its context. We prepared and distributed a musical documentation entitled A Collision. It would be rhetorical nonsense to have begun with B Collision. And thus, B follows A. It heaves its inspiration and meaning from what was ordered before it. It consists of a number of songs. Most of them rendered in the acoustical fashion. Simple constructions. Wood and metal strings. Vibrating the air. Some of these songs have been here before. But not presented in this manner. And then something fun happened on tour this fall. A moment of the ''LIVE'' variety that we insist on sharing. And then there is the subtitle. A Collision had a subtitle and B follows A and so B must and does have a subtitle. ''The Eschatology of Bluegrass.'' Wood and metal singing. Moving the air. Telling of how things will be ok. Regardless of how they seem right now. Something will follow. We are in sequence. And it just so happens we know the beginning and the end.
|1. Intro (Ive Had Enough)|
|2. A Beautiful Collision-B Variant|
|3. Wholly Yours-B Variant|
|4. Everybody Wants To Go To Heaven (I.P.)|
|5. I Can Hear The Angels Singing (...Andeverandeverand..)|
|6. Be Lifted|
|7. I Saw The Light|
I was born half Baptist (the East Texas, King James carrying, pipe organ, hymnal singing, Southern, type Baptist) and half Pentecostal (the Holy Ghost, jumpin' and shoutin', hand-waving, prophecying, Southern, type Pentecostal). Later, I was born again.
The son of an insurance salesman and a social worker, fructifying in the piney woods of Texarkana, I was as muddled as the name of my town. We drove a light blue Ford Thunderbird; not the old, classic kind, but a brand new one that had a sticker on it. The one with the electric windows and mirrors and the headlamp covers that flipped open when you turned on the headlights and an in-dash eight-track player. My dad and mom both used Aqua Net hair spray. He parted it on the right side and always carried a comb. She got permanents and had curlers that heated up every Saturday night while we all watched The Lawrence Welk Show and Hee-Haw. The eight-tracks in rotation were Elvis, Willie Nelson, Olivia Newton John, and Bill Gaither. Everything I've ever done musically can be traced back to there -- that Ford Thunderbird, those sounds, the view out of those windows, and my brother punching me in the arm on the way to Sunday morning Church. That is all metaphor and all true.
I didn't mean to write and sing songs for a living. Doesn't seem like much of a thing to get paid for. I'd guess the odds are about the same as winning the lottery or getting struck by lightning. Given my nepotistic hookup, my assumption was that I would move back home after college to sell insurance for my dad and eventually take over the family practice. Who doesn't love a good actuary table? And yet, one late October night, on an apartment balcony in Waco, Texas, just off of the Baylor University campus where I was student, a friend spun yarns that fell on me like a blanket and the course of my life was altered. He was an itinerant pastor of a rural church just outside of town. "So, I get a call at two in the morning," he says. "It's Carl Reeves on the phone, 'Pastor. We need you. You gotta get out here, now.' And so I go. I get in my truck and I go," he says. "It turns out Carl has a cow that has taken sick and he wants me to pray for it. To get in the mud, put my hands on this cow and pray for divine intervention on behalf of this bovine beast. And so, there I am. In the mud, chasing this cow around, trying to get my hands on the thing long enough to spit out a prayer."Continue Reading
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