Michaelcsmith | Hands of the Wicked

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Rock: Americana Rock: Roots Rock Moods: Type: Acoustic
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Hands of the Wicked

by Michaelcsmith

Sparse instrumentation stacked like bones inside a rich body of lyrics create this 9 song essay on man's dark search for redemption from the belly of his own hell; deeply personal and hauntingly universal.
Genre: Rock: Americana
Release Date: 

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  Song Share Time Download
1. Diamond Earrings
2:42 $0.99
2. Killin' Field
3:04 $0.99
3. Alberta Park (Hollis)
6:02 $0.99
4. When She's Around
3:04 $0.99
5. Don't Sleep Under My Tree
2:49 $0.99
6. Memphis
2:45 $0.99
7. Wicked Me
6:32 $0.99
8. Liberty
5:04 $0.99
9. The Gravedigger
3:02 $0.99
Downloads are available as MP3-320 files.


Album Notes
My dad and Bob Dylan are the same age. Both grew out of the first boom, the first rumblings of WWII American blues. There’s finality in that generation, a grand idea of life and a broad and far reaching understanding of dying. Dylan sang of dying on his first record; See That My Grave is Kept Clean he sang, an aching voice punching the air with an indefinite definition. Like Jerusalem, like purchasing a cemetery plot, like lighting another cigarette, like takin’ that first drink and knowin’ it’s the beginning of a life-long pursuit of the last one. My Dad and Bob Dylan are both poets; Bob on page and in song, my dad in the lines on his face and the legacy of hard work that is my inheritance.
There’s Jesus in all three of us. People shy away from that these days. They shy away from the idea that the Creator of the Universe crippled His majesty to work as a carpenter, to bless the orphans, to feed the hungry, to question the authority, to whip the thieves from the temple, to overturn the tables, to disconnect the cables, to raise the dead, to bury the history and start fresh, to break open the tomb, to resurrect the womb, to take on the burdens, to split the curtains, to rip the veil of our fears, our shallow lines, to dig in the dirt, to bare the pain of the innocent, to take on the suffering, to take on the struggling, to sing with the unions, to pay the bills so others can be free, to strike the hammer like John Henry did, to carry the cross so that others don’t have to.
My dad owns his own business, just like Bob, just like Jesus, just like I hope to. Someday I want to sing for everybody that needs a song, someday I want to play my guitar for everybody that needs a string to balance on, someday I want to write the words that comfort the weeping, and someday I want to feed the hungry with the fruit of my spirit and to be a friend to the friendless.
I’ve never seen my dad turn down a dollar or a meal to anybody that needed it, even when he didn’t have it to give. Someday I will inherit that business.



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