We’ll start talking about the big hard poems again soon, once our poor heads recover from work and such.  Until then, listen to William Elliott Whitmore.  I found out about the guy because he opened for the Pogues when we saw them a few months back.  He has the best-sounding banjo I’ve come across.  Banjos are all about their tone-rings, and his is perfect according to my ear–raspy and deep and percussive.  If he weren’t a thousand times more talented a picker than I am, I might roll him and steal his banjo.  Instead, I’ll just tell all y’all to give him your money.  Give him your money, dammit.  Give the boy your money.  He’s skinny, and he really needs a sammich.  And probably a clean glass of water, from the sound of him.

Oh, and this will only appeal to we precious few nutbags  .  . . he’s another crow person.

The bluebird can sing
But the crow’s got the soul

You’re damn right, Willie.

Even richer, Whitmore’s albums have photos of these art pieces he makes that are wooden boxes with bleached animal skulls inside, and some dead flowers.  Sometimes he brings the boxes on tour, sort of like Gillian Welch and David Rawlings and their antique box of musical accouterments, but so much, er, bonier.

If you hear he’s been kidnapped, don’t worry.  We’ll give him back once he promises to make regular appearances at our parties.  Pinky-swear.

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