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Southerly

by T Ferrell

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1.
Southerly 05:05
Sometimes when I'm walking through the rain and snow, I can barely feel my feet; The only thing colder than that city wind is the city folk I meet. Meet me at Union Station, we can hop a bus or a train; If it goes in a southerly direction, it's going the right way; If we're headed south, we're going the right way.
2.
And one day they made this county dry An honest man, can't get no rye; Next day they tore down them stills; I turn to the jake for to get my fill I was tight, just like the day before; Come to find my leg don’t work no more It shakes, and can’t feel my knee That jake done poisoned me; Tonight I’ll sleep alone in some hollowed out log; My woman said there's no place in her bed for a poor jake legged dog
3.
Ran into an old friend, she looked me over then She said, "man you look a little worse for the wear." She smiled and sighed and said “I guess it’s been a while, pour yourself a drink and pull up a chair.” She said: “Those sunken eyes, make you seem a little tired, they were blue, now they seem a little bit grayer; The nights are endless when you stay awake listening for the silence of being no one from nowhere” And I was looking for a theme, Some geometric measurement; But she said "it’s all in vain, She said everything’s an accident; And if you’re looking for your place, Well, you’re gonna need a duller lens and a sharper sense of emptiness." The stakes seems awful fierce, but only if you stand too near, the shadows lengthen where your mind bends concave, and your best endeavor to be remembered, will always be the worst use of your days; So just let the earth erode, go where it's gonna go, and put that hundred pound chisel away; the name you've etched to remain after you've left; well, it's writ in water anyway And I awoke from a dream, you were leading me to the sea, but you said it's all a vague reflection of my vanity And if I'm looking for a meaning, I'm gonna need a duller lens and a sharper sense of emptiness drive away from the malaise
4.
Old Soul 04:10
5.
6.
The old ones died, the new ones ain’t come round yet We walk in circles as we try not to forget about the good times We’ve got our creeds for to memorize our lines, We’ve built our monuments for to distract our eyes from all the bad times (are these the bad times?) And the gears of our clocks oxidize and corrode, But we polish the faces, make ‘em shine like gold. Let’s leave the deception behind, It’s an elegant decline, Take my hand, we can swim with the tide the old wood folds, the damp’ll usher it on down; neath the veneer the walls will bow to the ground and beg for more time, (just need some more time) we drank what’s left and now we’re down beyond the dregs tradition is life support for ideas with no legs on which to stand And the years and the miles grind and hollow our bones And even if we're of no consequence, at least we’re not alone. It’ll hurt a little less every time, in our elegant decline take my hand we can swim with the tide
7.
Anna Lee 04:31
8.
Tumbled without warning out of bed this morning, a little uglier than the day before Have forsaken any expectation of waking on the right side of the bed anymore Look in the cabinet for my morning angel, well my angels, they be running low; If I can rustle up a dram in my coffee; well I just might make it back to zero Collection bills are like prescription pills, once you start on ‘em, they’ won't never end; got debts spread round town, too many creditors to count, after last night, those debts are getting called in Well, I won't sweat no call from no buttoned-up banker, I won’t bow to no collection man in a tie; but I got one balance sheet that keeps me up at night, I’m on the wrong side of the wrong guys; So now I'm on the run and holed up with a borrowed gun in this dingy, transient roadside inn; Tip the desk clerk a $20 and tell him to call me if sees any old swinging dick walk in Light a smoke and pour a drink, and dim the lights and clutch the loaded shotgun on my knee; if the shit goes down tonight, son you best believe my philosophy is it’s better him than me. Since you’ve gone, I’ve been hanging out in the red, Hold my breath while the water rises over head If I make it through the night and manage to walk upright out of the blight of this deathtrap motel; Gonna need a place to rest a spell, a respite from myself; I’ll be alright if you’ll be my morning angel One last time, be my morning angel
9.
The past isn’t even past, it devours future plans Vast seas of their capital devour the working man The last will remain the last Tethered to a stagnant wage Wake up to find themselves in a second gilded age The past isn’t even past For trust fund legatees The fruits of dynastic wealth buy the 21st century And in the long run, They say it’ll trickle down, But in the long run, We’ll be underground. Super wealth comes fast for self-dealing sycophants collusion on corporate boards, compensation rubber-stamped The 1% holds fast the system will keep it so, influence protects the wealth the wealth in turn begets more votes, wealth in turn buys more votes. And in the meantime, They’ll erect more walls, They’ll give us separate and bill us for equal
10.

about

Words* and music by Taylor Ferrell
Recorded at Mr. Lemons Studio in Nashville, TN
Produced by Neilson Hubbard
Engineered and mixed by Neilson Hubbard
Mastered by Randy LeRoy at Airshow Mastering, Tacoma Park, MD
Art and graphic design by Joshua Britt
Thanks to the Treads for helping me road test these songs.
* Some lyrics inspired by and/or borrowed from McCarthy, Woodrell, Faulkner, Percy, Keats, and Piketty.

credits

released May 5, 2015

David Gilmore -- Guitars, vocals, pedal steel, piano, banjo
Taylor Ferrell -- Guitars, vocals, harmonica
Neilson Hubbard -- Bass, vocals, organ, acoustic guitars
Evan Hutchings -- Drums
Joshua Britt -- Mandolin
Heather Donegan -- Vocals

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about

T Ferrell Washington, D.C.

Mississippi native Taylor Ferrell writes and performs anti-establishment alt-country music. His populist themes and gritty stories channel Bruce Springsteen and Steve Earle. On his debut album, Jesus Year, Ferrell weaves whiskey-soaked tales of Mississippi working class heroes doing battle with corrupt preachers, man-eating vultures, and Confederate Generals. ... more

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