Old Bluegrass

I have an eclectic taste in music, but a special soft spot for old folk and bluegrass – mostly because I love the key of G – and I don’t think it really counts as bluegrass unless you can hear tobacco sloshing between jowls with just a subtle, little touch of racism.

I especially love to listen to those dusty, old records on dark, rainy nights, and imagine the taste of the moist mountain air, and smell the pungent smoke of tobacco pipes and old chimneys. Between the rapidly spun notes and percussive stomps, I can faintly hear the sounds of a bubbling brook, and a black-eyed dog barking off in the distance. And a little part me even feels the sense of dread that I’ve made a wrong turn and ended up in the boonies, where a hate crime might just pop out of the trees at any moment.

“Oh my god! Was that a shotgun?!”

My personal favorite artist in the genre is Ralph Stanley; a true legend who penned such poetic lines as “Hidey hibbety hubbety ho.” And those words always hit me right in the heart like, “Well mumbled, sir. Well mumbled.”

(listen at http://www.soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/holt)



I think we should replace the word arachnophobia, because I think it puts too much blame on the victim. No one talks about “murderous stalker phobia,” and a human stalker is actually better, because they’ll at least write you some creepy love letters before breaking into your house to claim their prize. But for a spider, that’s pretty much its icebreaker. They just break into your house, creep out on a corner, and look at you like you’re small.

And we’ve all walked into a spider’s web, right? And what is a spider’s web but a booby trap? That’s why they put them in front of your door. They know you walk in and out, day and night, and they want you to get stuck in it, so they can kill you and drink your blood.

(listen at http://soundcloud.com/yourfaultforlistening/nakis)