Biografía:
William Elliott Whitmore, nacido en 1978, es un cantante y músico de deep-blues nacido en Lee County, Iowa. Ha grabado varios álbumes lanzados por Southern Records. Sus presentaciones consisten mayormente en tocar el banjo o la guitarra mientras canta, aunque en ocasiones canta a capella. Su profunda, grave y áspera voz (características que posee pese a su juventud) y sus cautivantes presentaciones en vivo han hecho que se lo compare a Tom Waits o Johnny Cash.
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Otras canciones:
- Burn My Body
- Diggin My Grave
- Does Me No Good
- Dry
- Everything Gets Gone
- Field Song
- Gravel Road
- Hell Or High Water
- Im Not Feeling Ay Pain
- Johnny Law
- Lee County Flood
- Lets Do Something Impossible
- Not Feeling Any Pain
- Old Devils
- One Mans Shame
- Pine Box
- Porchlight
- Red Buds
- Sally Bangs
- Sorest Of Eyes
- Take It On The Chin
- Theres Hope For You
- When Push Comes To Love
- Youve Already Gone
¡Cuatro años de duro trabajo!Este mes de mayo cumplimos cuatro años al aire. Seguimos trabajando en la difusión de este maravilloso instrumento, ¡gracias por participar en nuestra historia!
intro:
A ....... A F#M D E A
A F#M
It must be that time of year
D E
I'm feeling that pull again
A F#M
I've got to get away from here
D E
and back to where my feet can stand
A F#M
Back to where the trees grow tall
D E
and ain't a sound for miles around
A F#M
Except for the distant call
D E A
of that lonely coyote's howl
D A
Life's mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel
E A
and I leave the paved road far behind
A F#M
Every breath I breathe is one step closer to me
D E A
easing my worried mind
Repeat same pattern
Way back in the sticks
is where I feel alive
in my rusty old '66
that won't even go fifty five
Nothing can compare
to the joy that I've found
every time I go back there
to my own spiritual ground
I'll make a quart of sweet corn whiskey
from ten gallons of sour mash
I'll turn a pile of firewood
into a pile of sky grey ash
If there's anything left inside me
that remembers what it's like to feel
that cold rain falling on the top of my head
and the mud beneath my heels
A ....... A F#M D E A
A F#M
It must be that time of year
D E
I'm feeling that pull again
A F#M
I've got to get away from here
D E
and back to where my feet can stand
A F#M
Back to where the trees grow tall
D E
and ain't a sound for miles around
A F#M
Except for the distant call
D E A
of that lonely coyote's howl
D A
Life's mysteries unravel when my tires hit that gravel
E A
and I leave the paved road far behind
A F#M
Every breath I breathe is one step closer to me
D E A
easing my worried mind
Repeat same pattern
Way back in the sticks
is where I feel alive
in my rusty old '66
that won't even go fifty five
Nothing can compare
to the joy that I've found
every time I go back there
to my own spiritual ground
I'll make a quart of sweet corn whiskey
from ten gallons of sour mash
I'll turn a pile of firewood
into a pile of sky grey ash
If there's anything left inside me
that remembers what it's like to feel
that cold rain falling on the top of my head
and the mud beneath my heels
William Hut
William Jimenez
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