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A Pattern On The Winter Moon
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A song about smoke in the basement.
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Songwriter, guitarist and singer writing and recording songs ranging from simple folk to loud, noisy rock and roll.
I'm a songwriter and guitarist recording at the back of the house, not too far from the washer & dryer. My song productions range from simple voice and acoustic guitar to full-blown electric guitar, bass and drums “band” arrangements, with the occasional mandolin, bouzouki, keyboard, hand-percussion and cat noises thrown in to the mix. So far, I've been playing all the instruments myself, more out of necessity than anything else. I like the do-it-yourself ethic a lot - why pay a recording studio tens of thousands of dollars to record a CD that no one will hear, when you can record it at home for free? DIY worked for William Blake, didn't it? By the way, I don't wish to sound like I'm knocking recording studios - having learned about the recording process, I have tremendous respect and admiration for audio engineers. I'd love to show up at a good studio with a great band, and have someone else do all the hard work of recording, mixing and mastering. And have someone else pay for it, too. Writing the songs is the easy part... I think all of my songs work reasonably well with just a voice and an acoustic guitar - they are almost always written on acoustic guitar - so I've gone with the folk-rock genre, but I find the whole genre problem difficult to figure out. I have a terrible time classifying everything in my CD collection, let alone classifying myself. All you really need to know - I love to play the guitar and to write songs and I do the best that I can in front of a microphone.
Song Info
Genre
Rock Folk Rock
Charts
Peak #356
Peak in subgenre #29
Author
Jim Powell
Rights
2006
Uploaded
December 21, 2008
Track Files
MP3
MP3 4.8 MB 128 kbps 5:14
Story behind the song
I heard several songs referring to piney woods, and wanted one of my own. This isn't an auto-biographical song, however - I live in a mixed evergreen forest.
Lyrics
We built a little house in the piney wood With big windows looking toward the sea. As we stood together ‘neath the winter moon I smelled smoke upon the evening breeze. And the branches on the dead trees scrape A pattern on the winter moon And I worked so hard to ignore that smell, But I couldn’t get it off my mind. As we stood together I was miles away, But no fire there that I could find. With a sense of dread I went down below Underneath our little house to see. I saw blackened trees and some coals remained Wafting smoke upon the evening breeze. And the piney wood sounds so quiet, calm. I can smell the ocean on the breeze. But the moon is new and we stand apart Between the skeletons of those trees.
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