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lyrics
Folk Art Masterpiece
My grandmother grew up in a two room shack,
The last of seven children, used to dress in gunny sacks.
She said that times were hard, family scattered near and far,
Like seeds into the dirt or the dimmest set of stars.
And there's preachers every Sunday, muscodines each fall,
I'd like to die in Arkansas if I should die at all.
You could call it alchemy, some ancient art of old:
Hillbillies with no money spun their garbage into gold.
'Cause I swear a square dance saved my life one hot summer day,
I swear I's bout to kill myself, I swear I's bound away,
I swear I heard the voice of God between the caller's cries:
An Ozark fiddle tune and a pretty girl's brown eyes.
And there's preachers every Sunday, muscodines each fall,
I'd like to die in Arkansas if I should die at all.
I thought that bein' poor would weigh heavy on my soul,
But it's a little drunken happiness like this that makes me whole.
And you say that anyone could make it, and I guess that's so.
I guess I ain't Walt Whitman, I guess she ain't Van Gogh.
You can't account for taste, but I know my north from south,
And it's a goddamn folk art masterpiece when she opens up her mouth.
And there's preachers every Sunday, muscodines each fall,
I'd like to die in Arkansas if I should die at all.
You could call it alchemy, some ancient art of old:
Hillbillies with no money spun their garbage into gold.
supported by 42 fans who also own “Folk Art Masterpiece”
I don't know if I like this as much as his last album, but that's one hell of a standard. Willi still tells a captivating story. People struggling against the grindstone and public perception to boot. Album sounds great, and I hope to finally get to see him live soon. One of my favorite singer-songwriters in the last few years. Bart
On “Meet Me By the River,” Dawn Landes’s self-described “Nashville record,” buoyant country melodies settle deep into lush instrumentation. Bandcamp New & Notable May 7, 2018
supported by 32 fans who also own “Folk Art Masterpiece”
Sierra Ferrell's music is the nectar that drips from vocal chords of angels on ecstacy and percocet, dripping with honey, and smelling of grandma's brownies. It has been proven to "cure what ails ya", and it temporarily wards off the existential dread that is slowly encompassing us all. Don't let the absurdity of our existence get you down. Listen to Sierra Ferrell instead.
I am me and I approved this message. oldmanj716