Song picture
On Easter Morning
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A song about waking up.
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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
Charts
#8,537 today Peak #727
#1,925 in subgenre Peak #154
Author
Jim Powell
Rights
2006
Uploaded
December 21, 2008
Track Files
MP3
MP3 3.9 MB 128 kbps 4:17
Story behind the song
I wrote the words while stuck in traffic on Highway 17 on Good Friday a few years ago. I wrote the music on Saturday, and recorded a demo on Easter.
Lyrics
I awoke to the sound of gunfire on Easter Morning, But I could not speak to save my life. How I wanted to run from this place, And I was pinned not by bullets, But the sins of a past I never lived. This bed is cold as stone, And although the door is open, I cannot leave. Thirsty, I took the cup to drink on Easter Morning, But the rim was cracked and cut my lip. The drops of blood mixed with dry dust, For the cup had been empty for ages, And I could never fill it though I bleed for one thousand years. This bed is cold as stone, And although the door is open, I cannot leave. Awake, I wept at the thought of the night before Easter Morning: At the violence of the actions that filled my head. And I looked out the door At the tree I once had climbed, Riddled with bullets, and I could not save myself. This bed is cold as stone, And although the door is open, I cannot leave.
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