Even if this record never goes platinum, it’s been worth it. Hard work but fun and rewarding. I’m not sure what plucked the first chord to get it going or how I arrived at the Line Up. There are proverbs about understanding the ways of an eagle in the sky, a serpent on a rock, and a ship at sea. It’s not that kind of elusive. But still, like the heart, difficult to define and explain. Easier to just talk about. So here it is:

Back Home Again in Indiana sets the pace from the land of fast cars and freedom. What a classic song to get the motor running. But it points back to a time before we even had engines to crank. Very often Hard Times, and we sigh with the weary that they come again no more.

All the songs save one have stood the test of time. They are part of our folklore that makes the Americana DNA. There is one exception, one original, and believe me, it has passed through my soul. Would love to think Little Boys of Summer is worth the price of the whole album if only for the tag line at the end. Oh that all children could have those words resonating in their hearts when too often some face those who deserve a millstone tied around their neck. But my instinct is that the collection of the timeless ten is worth having. Who knows what moments and memories will emerge? Shelby Foote placing us where the peaches are picked, the dogwoods have blossomed, and the kudzu has taken over? Sharing a frosty root beer float at Tinsley Bible Drugstore?

We all sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame, but the 7^th inning stretch never includes the verses. That Katie Casey sounds like my kind of girl, the bride of my youth. Shady Grove and Lil’ Liza Jane contemplate the forever-amazement too wonderful for even the wise to understand: the way of a man with a maiden.

I betray my hand in Make Me Down a Pallet and add to the variety of lyrics that has accrued to this bluesy tune. The misspelling in Cast Me Down a Ballet is intentional: e is for error. I think you’ll get the point enough to chuckle as in Arkansas Traveler, a story with tongue planted firmly in cheek. What would a slice of Americana be without a good train song? I can just see dad and son on a windows-down, country-road truck ride. “You’ll like this one,” pushing play on The Ballad of Casey Jones.

There is a sense of place here, a place we call home. Maybe that is what compels us to love more, laugh lots, sing loudly, and live happily, to borrow a phrase from my coffee mug. But at the same time, we are not home yet. At least it feels that way. Coming. Going. Yearning. Leaving. Nostalgia. Returning. My Old Kentucky Home and Old Folks at Home embrace all that.

This has not been touched by session virtuosos or EQ pros. It’s simple. Six-string simple, along the lines of five barley loaves and two small fish. And maybe for that reason more authentic. More than anything, I want to strike it true. Especially for such a time as this. I have a hunch that much here captures a culture being cancelled by its enemies. No, it’s not heaven, we still need that kingdom to come. Americana is not Kingdoma. But there has been and still is some wheat, however flawed, down in amongst the tares. I don’t know how to quantify that, maybe the tares have taken over like kudzu. After all, there is that mystery-harlot clothed in purple and scarlet, adorned with gold, precious stones and pearls that intoxicates the kings and inhabitants of the earth, so perhaps we are no exception. But for the living of these days, I reckon you’ll find something redemptive, something worth remembering, something worth passing along. I have.