COPPERHEAD ROAD by STEVE EARLE. Story by Bill Arnott.
He was going to either live off-the-grid and plot conspiracy theories or start a band and write songs. He chose the latter, which made my life better.
He was going to either live off-the-grid and plot conspiracy theories or start a band and write songs. He chose the latter, which made my life better.
In the lee of an old wooden dock with barnacled pilings, fishing boats bobbed at anchor.
As the sun set, a man took a seat at a truncated keyboard. A 60-key piano that barely fitted in the space, jammed between the door and a window. With minimal fanfare he played for the few of us there.
I couldn’t determine his age. Maybe thirty. Maybe sixty. Weathered, muscled and lean.
The wash of sea set a score, emanating from the base of high cliffs. I hoisted a pack and travel guitar, and made my way toward town.
Although mine was a record and dad’s was a tape, there was no mistaking a shift in the axis that staked our two worlds.
Together we embraced the galaxial view, climbed higher and higher. Reaffirmed choices, what got us there, advances and setbacks, every moment a soundtrack
Sailing hard for ten hours, we ploughed our way into a lee at the mouth of a river, a sailors’ safe haven for centuries.
Four strings and one player. Making things better. Alchemy. Magic, and timeless. The wonder of cello.
Mom and I got matching black tee-shirts with strutting, spiky-haired Tina embossed on the front.