My Rifle My Pony
Be Here Now
grew up in the Rockfish Valley, in Virginia, in the first folds of the Blue Ridge Mountains. His father died at the age of 22, and as he spent the winter of that year getting his senses back, he found the only music he could hear was old American gospel music. People had lived desperately lonely, desperately sad, relentlessly hard lives for a long time, it turns out, and had asked Why in Song. Add a healthy dose of drones, a wall of sound to protect him from the shit of the world, the loneliness of a prairie cowboy on a 20 year run, and a man pleading with the Wilderness to put him back on the elusive tracks of the Good Medicine, and you get close a close approximation of his music. Thanks for listening.