Born in the shadows of the Blue Ridge Mountains, with one foot in heaven and one in hell, as is the life here. Saints and sinners. The songs come from the spirits of this old ground, and our blood seeps back into it. For those of us who walk these ridges with desperation in our hearts and alcohol on our breath, it makes sense to us. It is our penance to live this way. The moonshine, labor, pine trees, and glorious heritage of music will keep us sane at least till tomorrow. Down by the river, winkin at the shadows and standin in the water. Red Clay River has seemed to have found a trail that leads toward town. But then again, maybe there is no way out of this, unless it includes the footstomps that keep time with the banjo's skin. Red Clay is keeping the sounds of ghosts riding through the holler on their four-board pine coffins. And they're comin for you boy, they're comin for you....
