Bill Pritchard and Patrick Woodcock - Grave Men скачать в хорошем качестве

Bill Pritchard and Patrick Woodcock - Grave Men

Order 'Farhang Book One': In Canada https://a.co/d/d9Zsr6d https://ecwpress.com/products/farhang In USA and abroad: https://a.co/d/bLWY4x5 Visit these sights for more insight into the book: https://farhangbook1.substack.com/ https://farhangbook1.com/ While taking breaks from working on my new manuscript 'Farhang Book 1' I began writing to artists whose music was, and still is, the soundtrack to my time working and writing abroad or volunteering in Canada's north. I asked if they would write a song for me using pieces from my unfinished manuscript. I have been listening to Bill Pritchard since 1989 when I first heard his lyrically brilliant and sonically beautiful album Three Months, Three Weeks & Two Days. From his 1991 album Jolie to 2019's Midland Lullabies, Pritchard continues to astound me. Buy it. It was pure joy to work with someone as kind and generous as Bill and to hear him alter my lines while shaping the song. Bills spent months working on this piece. I cannot thank him enough for capturing the rhythm and frustration with my lines. I would also like to thank Scott Ralph for engineering the piece and finding the notes and lines their proper homes. Credits: Music: Bill Pritchard Production: Scott Ralph/ Bill Pritchard Sound Engineer: Scott Ralph Recorded at Coalhouse Studios I always find peace and quiet in the cemeteries of other countries. You learn a lot by watching how others mourn. But sometimes the peace was broken by men hiding from the police and drinking amongst the graves. I wrote this for them. Here is the original piece - the lyrics of Bill's song contain the first line and omit the first stanza and lines in brackets.: Heartened by hops, their spirits and song the hangman and hung men of the cast iron choir watched me through dimmed eyes, sun damaged and fading, like portraits on tombstones, staring as well. (They swig and they sing to their fictitious king) Tree trunks of marble were both bench and table grape vodka bottles lay shattered on graves where sweetness was missing, where a courtyard was stolen, by the weeds of demise whose stems raised the dead. (They swig and they call for a fortified wall) Pamphlets are drifting like leaves through the walkways misleading those waltzing in thinking it’s fall. The wind has grown bitter, purely pernicious dismantling the gated, one gait at a time. (They swig and then weep on the portraits they keep) My voice was unwelcome, bruised by the bourbon that opened the alley then curved it in curse. For being too upright, aseptic and uptight, I was run out while finding a plot for my verse. (I offer my grave men, this piece as your hearse.) I filmed this alone in Paulatuk on March 4th, 2022 - my mother's birthday. I am walking toward to the Amundsen Gulf on a frozen Darnley Bay - amazed at making it back to the centre of the shot and the tripod not moving.