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A reaction to Toni Morrison's novel 'Sula.' Just a nice little live, single-track version.
songwriter acoustic kansas singersongwriter midwest
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Intelligent lyrics wrapped in dripping wet melodies. Been descibed as music you've always wanted to hear but never had the chance to.
To quote a bit of Shakespeare, "A life mended is but patched". The sutures split and the life drains from the wound. Once healed, the scar remains as a reminder of the pain. These are my scars. These are my thoughts, ideas, and wisdom I have gained along the way. The twisted raised surface of a life torn and mended and torn again. This is my collagen, my bandages, and all that lies beneath. It's been years since I have visited this page. I should be working to remedy that soon. The degree is in the bag--at least most of it--and the music can now resurface. Over the course of the next few months I will be going back to work on the Lethologica album. At this conjuncture, the tracks look like they'll be a lot more complete and complex (and possibly more eclectic) than the work I have done in the past. I am also hoping for a bit more congruence of sound--one of my biggest concerns with the last two albums. As the songs come together I will be uploading them for your perusal. Those of you who have been waiting for something new, I apologize for my absence. For the rest of you, I apologize for my return.
Song Info
Genre
Acoustic • Acoustic Rock
Charts
Peak #951
Peak in subgenre #147
Author
Timothy Goss
Rights
2007 angryclown music
Uploaded
June 07, 2008
Track Files
MP3
MP3 3.2 MB • 128 kbps • 3:30
Lyrics
Ohio river valley, Ohio river road, and we can see it all from here, the lies we've been sold. From the corn stalks to the chopping blocks to the man behind the till, 'til the clouds open up and the soil runs down hill. And Sula wakes up early, runs her hands across her thighs, while the man inside her bedroom goes back home to his wife, and the children cry to mother about the terrible abuse, but they still have yet to see the things a world like this can do. But here we are up at the bottom, wondering whose hands drive the wheel. This isn't the dream that we'd hoped for, it just keeps us standing still. This is the underside of heaven, this is the capstone of hell, this is the world we've been given and maybe it's just as well. From the diaries of matriarchs to the impotence of men, to the body in the river rising just beyond the bend. They say it was an accident, they say it's just a thing, but Sula still sees the water closing over the remains, and the pressure from those fingers leave a permanant remark, as she tries to rub the stains on another body in the dark. But here we are up at the bottom, trying to spin silver from steel, trying to react to a world that keeps us standing still. She says at least in my life I've thought to ask forgiveness, at least in my life, I have thought to live. Sometimes staying the course, is an ugly virtue, but in a static town like this it seems the only way there is. When nothing comes from nothing, than nothing is resolved, and no amount of heaven or grace can fill it all. They say it doesn't hurt, to cross the great divide. Some days it seems the only way out of this life. But here we are up at the bottom, working our nerves to the bone. This is the downslide of heaven and all we'll probably ever know. And if I sing hallelujah, If I scream hallelujah, If I really mean hallelujah, Will someone come to carry me home?
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