Broke down on a county line, no signal, no sign.
Dust thick as memory, sweat tasting like pine.
Moonshiner pulled up in a truck older than sin.
Said, “You ain’t from here, but I’ll let you in.”
He poured me a jar with a grin full of scars.
Said, “This ain’t just liquor—it’s lightning in jars.”
Told tales of racing law with no light, no sound.
Said, “Danger’s a neighbor when you’re moonshine-bound.”
He ran through the hills with a map in his head.
Said, “I’ve dodged more badges than I’ve ever read.”
Tires kissed gravel like lovers in flight.
Said, “Faith ain’t a preacher—it’s riding at night.”
Down south, broke down,
moonshine dreams in a ghost town.
No light, no law,
just a rebel and a fatal flaw.
Down south, broke down,
healing rides where truth is found.
Moonshine burns, but it don’t lie—
you live once, you ride high.
He said, “Freedom ain’t clean—it’s carved in dust.”
“Trust ain’t earned—it’s built in rust.”
“Pain don’t fade—it just learns to sing.”
“Moonshine’s a gospel for men without wings.”
Thanks for the lift, for the light, for the jar.
For the stories that ride farther than any car.
Moonshine wisdom, southern grace,
healing found in a stranger’s face.
Down south, broke down,
but I left with more (with more) left with more (with more) than I ever found.  Down south, (Down south)... broke down....

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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Down South Moonshine Rusty Marshall Band

Chrome doesn’t lie when the sun hits just right.
Grease stains carry stories no preacher could preach.
Leather grips tighter when the road turns mean.
Throttle speaks louder than most men ever do.
Chain hums like a hymn when the gears catch clean.
Motor don’t judge—it just moves.
Steel forgives what flesh remembers.
Faith ain’t found in pews—it’s welded into the frame.
Belief don’t need a book when the engine’s warm.
Salvation don’t wear robes—it wears road dust.
Motor and chain, heart and vein.
Ride through fire, ride through rain.
Trust in steel, trust in speed.
Faith ain’t words—it’s what you bleed.
Motor and chain, soul and flame.
Every mile calls your name.
Smoke rises from the past like a warning.
Mirrors show ghosts that never blink.
Gasoline smells like freedom when the tank’s full.
Tires grip truth tighter than memory.
Wind carries prayers no one hears but the road.
Helmet hides the tears that never fell.
Kickstand holds more weight than most promises.
Chain don’t break unless you forget to believe.
Every bolt holds a reason.
each dent tells a truth.
Every ride rewrites the story.
each mile is proof.
Sunset paints the scars gold.
Highway hums like a choir of sinners.
Motor sings louder than regret.
Chain pulls forward when nothing else will.
Faith don’t ask for permission—it just rides.
Brotherhood lives in the echo of the pipes.
Hope rides pillion with grit.
Motor and chain never let go.
Motor and chain, heart and vein.
Ride through fire, ride through rain.
Trust in steel, trust in speed.
Faith ain’t words—it’s what you bleed.
Motor and chain, soul and flame.
Every mile calls your name.
Some pray with hands.
Some pray with throttle.
I just ride.
That’s my gospel.
[bass guitar riff}
I just ride.  I just ride.  I just ride.
 just ride...... ride....... ride.
All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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Motor and Chain  Rusty Marshall Band

Chains don’t always rattle when they’re made of blood.
Smoke curled from lips that never learned to lie.
Boots tracked mud through memories that won’t clean easy.
Laughter echoed in garages where pain was passed around.
Knuckles cracked before words could explain the damage.
Ashtrays filled with secrets no one dared to name.
Gasoline soaked the promise of a better plan.
Midnight came with silence that felt like a dare.
Freedom don’t come with a map.
Brotherhood don’t come without traps.
 run from the fight, but not from the fire.
break every bond, but not the wire.
 curse every name, but not the mother.
 lose yourself, but not one another.
You can burn the bridge, but not the sky.
You can live alone, but not live right.
Whispers carried weight when spoken in the dark.
Tires spun stories that never made it home.
Whiskey blurred the lines between truth and defense.
Gloves held more than fists—they held history.
Doors slammed like punctuation on broken trust.
Cigarettes lit the fuse on nights that never ended.
Radio static hummed like a hymn for the lost.
Windows stayed down even when the rain hit hard.
Distance don’t heal what’s buried deep.
Silence don’t mean the soul’s asleep.
Pain don’t fade when it’s shared in code.
Love don’t die—it just changes mode.
Letters stayed unsent because the ink felt heavy.
Roads stretched long but never felt wide enough.
Names got shorter when shouted through grief.
Hands reached out but never quite touched.
Smoke rose from engines that knew the way.
Time blinked and missed the moment.
Scars told stories no preacher could preach.
Hope rode shotgun with a loaded past.
 run from the fight, but not from the fire.
break every bond, but not the wire.
 curse every name, but not the mother.
 lose yourself, but not one another.
You can burn the bridge, but not the sky.
You can live alone, but not live right.
Some ties choke.
Some ties save.
But the ones that hold
are the ones you crave.
 run from the fight, but not from the fire.
break every bond, but not the wire.
 curse every name, but not the mother.
 lose yourself, but not one another.
You can burn the bridge, but not the sky.
You can live... alone, but not live... right....

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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One Another Rusty Marshall Band

I met her in a diner off the highway where the coffee tasted like rust.
She smiled like she hadn’t been warned about men like me.
I told her I was just passing through, but I stayed long enough to memorize her laugh.
She asked about my scars and I lied like a gentleman.
We danced in a parking lot with no music, just the hum of her hope.
She said I felt like home—I said nothing and held her tighter.
I knew then I’d have to break her heart before the world did.
You don’t know what could catch us from my past,
and I won’t let you live in a story that ends with sirens.
I’ve seen good women lose everything trying to love a man who couldn’t stay.
I’ve buried friends who thought they could outrun their ghosts.
I’ve watched dreams burn because someone believed in me too much.
I love you more than you’ll ever know,
but I won’t let that love become a wound you carry.
I’m not the man for main street dreams—I’m the one they whisper about when the lights go out.
I’ve got to go, (got to go), got to go.
Outlaw’s love never ends slow.
It breaks like glass and leaves no trace.
It hurts the heart and scars the face.
You deserve a life that lasts,
not one that’s built to crash.
I love you more than I can show,
but I’ve got to go, (got to go), got to go.
 slept in motels where the walls told secrets.
 made deals with men who don’t blink.
 driven through towns where my name was a warning.
kissed women who thought they could fix me and left before they tried.
 never stayed long enough to see spring bloom.
 never promised anything I couldn’t outrun.
I’ve never let anyone see the whole  damage I'v been through....
Until you............(Until you).....
You made me wish I was different.
You made me think maybe I could stay.
You made me feel like the road wasn’t the only way forward.
But I know better—and I won’t let you pay for my hope on any day
( any day ) ...any .....day...........
I’ve got to go, (got to go), got to go.
Outlaw’s love never ends slow.
It breaks like glass and leaves no trace.
It hurts the heart and scars the face.
You deserve a life that lasts,
not one that’s built to crash.
I love you more than I can show,
but I’ve got to go, (got to go), ....got to go.
You’ll forget my name,
got to go, (got to go)
but not the way I left.
got to go, (got to go)
That’s the curse of loving an outlaw.
got to go, (got to go)....got to go,...... (got to go)

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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Outlaw’s Love Rusty Marshall Band

I’ve worked every shit job this town could throw at me—roofing in July, dish pits in December.
I’ve poured concrete with frozen fingers and hauled trash for men who never said thank you.
I’ve cleaned up messes I didn’t make and smiled through paychecks that felt like insults.
I did it all for one thing: that Harley.
Not just any bike—his bike.
The one with the eagle scratched into the tank and the gloves tucked under the seat.
She handed me the title like it was scripture and said, “He rides with you now.”
I didn’t cry—I just nodded and felt the weight of every mile ahead.
He was the kind of man who didn’t need to speak to be heard.
His coat smelled like oil and wind, and his laugh could fix a broken day.
He taught me how to ride without fear and how to fall without shame.
He said the road doesn’t care who you are—it only remembers how you ride.
I watched him take curves like they were prayers and stoplights like they were dares.
When he passed, the clouds didn’t mourn—they revved.
Now I ride with his ghost in my mirror and his legend in my throttle.
The road, the road, the road we once rode
is mine now, but it’s not alone.
If I fall, I know you’ll be there, brother.
I know, I know—I’m not on my own.
The gloves still fit, the wind still sings,
and the bike still hums like it knows my name.
I’ve been pulled over by cops who didn’t understand the story.
I’ve been judged by suits who never earned a scar.
I’ve been broke, bent, and borderline broken.
But I’ve never stopped riding.
Every shift I worked was a down payment on freedom.
Every blister was a signature on the title.
Every mile I ride now is a thank-you note to the man who showed me how.
I don’t ride for speed—I ride for memory.
He’s not gone (He’s not gone)—he’s airborne.
He’s not silent (He’s not silent)—he’s stereo ....man .... stereo
He’s not gone (He’s not gone)—he’s mapped into every turn.
He’s not gone (He’s not gone)—he’s just ahead of me.
The road, the road, the road we once rode
still calls me like a hymn I never forgot.
If I fall, I know you’ll catch the echo.
I know, I know—you’re still in the plot.
The gloves still fit, the wind still sings,
and the bike still hums like it knows my name.
He’s not gone (He’s not gone)—he’s airborne.
He’s not silent (He’s not silent)—he’s stereo ....man
He’s not gone (He’s not gone)—he’s mapped into every turn.
He’s not gone (He’s not gone)—he’s just ahead of me.
She said he rides with me.
And every mile.. proves.. her ..right..

We Once Rode Rusty Marshall Band

I learned to make a fist from my older brother at five,
and trust me, that skill’s kept me alive more times than I can count.
He showed me how to square up before I knew how to spell my name.
We didn’t have bedtime stories—we had bruises and broken lamps.
Mama prayed, Daddy drank, and we ducked when the shouting started.
I wore my first scar like a badge and never asked for a refund.
By seven, I knew how to take a hit and how to hide the tears.
By ten, I stopped hiding anything at all.
I’m a fighter, always have been, even when I didn’t want to be.
This skin’s beyond thin—it’s paper stretched over dynamite.
One twist, one wrong word, and I’m back in the ring.
It’s not about winning—it’s about not backing down.
I’ve thrown punches in parking lots and whispered apologies in hospital rooms.
I’ve fought for love, for pride, for silence, for nothing.
Sometimes I fight just to feel something that isn’t shame.
Sometimes I fight because it’s the only thing I trust to stay.
I’ve been hit by friends, by strangers, by truths I wasn’t ready for.
I’ve lost teeth, lost time, lost the thread of who I was supposed to be.
I’ve seen the look in her eyes when she realized I wasn’t safe to love.
I’ve walked out of rooms I should’ve stayed in and stayed in fights I should’ve walked from.
I’ve buried the best parts of me under layers of defense.
I’ve told myself I’m fine while bleeding through my shirt.
I’ve made peace with the fact that peace never made time for me.
I’ve stared down mirrors and dared them to blink first.
I don’t romanticize the damage—I just carry it.
I don’t ask for forgiveness—I just keep moving.
I don’t know what healing looks like, but I know what survival costs.
I don’t cry anymore, but I still flinch when someone says “safe.”
I’m the kind of man who’d die from a blow he didn’t see coming.
Not because he’s weak, but because he’s always looking the other way.
I’ve got stories stitched into my knuckles and regrets tattooed on my ribs.
I’ve got a heart that punches back and a mind that won’t stay quiet.
I’ve got a past that won’t let go and a future I don’t trust.
I’ve got one truth left: I fight.
Not for glory. Not for fame.
Just because that’s what got me down the line.
That’s just me.
No anthem. No apology.
Just a man who learned to swing
and never stopped.
That’s just me.(That’s just me.)That’s just me.
That’s just me.(That’s just me.)That’s just me.
That’s just me.(That’s just me.)That’s just me.
That’s just me.(That’s just me.)That’s just me

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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That’s Just Me Rusty Marshall Band

I wasn’t looking for anything but a refill.
I didn’t expect the kind of silence that changes a room.
Then everything shifted.
She entered like the answer to a question I’d buried years ago.
Her eyes didn’t blink—they just stared straight through the noise.
I dropped my change and forgot what I was buying.
The jukebox skipped like it knew something was happening.
No smile, no nod—just presence, and the whole place felt warmer.
I stood still like a man who’d just remembered his own name.
I’ve seen beauty dressed in diamonds and disaster,
but this was grace with a heartbeat and no warning.
The world got quiet and my past got loud.
Sleep felt foreign and pretending lost its grip.
Time forgot its job and every line I’d written unraveled.
Shock came gentle, like thunder wrapped in velvet.
Love didn’t knock—it rewired the room.
She ordered coffee like it was a sacred ritual.
Her voice had the rhythm of someone who’s lived through storms.
I tried to speak but my words came out sideways.
She laughed once and it echoed like a hymn.
Cream stirred like paint on canvas, and I memorized the motion.
That spoon held more grace than most sermons I’ve heard.
Names didn’t matter because the moment already knew us.
Stories didn’t need telling because the silence filled them in.
Staying wasn’t a question—it was already happening.
Signs weren’t needed when the air itself was singing.
The jukebox played a brand-new song and I knew where I belonged.
Breath came easier and the room felt like home.
Every chord I’d ever strummed made sense in that instant.
She didn’t change me—she revealed what was already waiting.
She walked in.
And I’m still catching my breath.
still catching my breath.
still catching my breath.

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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She Walked In Rusty Marshall Band

This isn’t a cry for help.
It’s just a list of things that didn’t go right.
Some were my fault.
Some were just the weather.
I missed the train by seconds and the job by inches.
I said the truth too early and the lie too late.
I wore the wrong shirt to the right funeral.
I held the door for someone who never looked back.
I bought the ticket for the concert that got canceled.
I learned the lesson after the test was graded.
I loved the one who needed someone else.
I stayed when leaving would’ve saved me.
I walked into rooms where no one knew my name.
I answered questions no one asked.
I gave advice to people who preferred the fall.
I planted seeds in soil that wouldn’t hold.
I tried to fix the leak with words and tape.
I chased the dog that didn’t want to be found.
I wrote the song that no one wanted to sing.
I prayed for peace while holding onto pride.
Hapless isn’t tragic—it’s just tangled.
It’s the feeling of being one step behind the moment.
It’s the sound of your name being mispronounced in every room.
It’s the echo of good intentions that never landed.
Hapless is the story that starts with “almost.”
It’s the dance you learned after the music changed.
It’s the apology you rehearsed for someone who left.
It’s the map that leads to places already closed.
Hapless is the laugh that comes too late to help.
It’s the kindness that gets mistaken for weakness.
It’s the truth that arrives after the damage is done.
It’s the part of you that keeps showing up anyway.
I gave the toast that no one clapped for.
I wore the shoes that squeaked in silence.
I tried to help and made it worse.
I stood in line for something that wasn’t mine.
I told the joke that didn’t land.
I held the note that didn’t fit the chord.
I stayed polite when I should’ve roared.
I kept the peace and lost the war.
I’m not asking for a rewrite.
I’m not hoping for applause.
I just want someone to know
that I showed up despite the odds.
I’m not proud of every moment.
I’m not ashamed of every fall.
I’m just the man who kept on walking
when the world forgot to call.
Hapless isn’t broken—it’s just bruised.
It’s the rhythm of a life that never quite aligned.
It’s the melody that plays beneath the noise.
It’s the grace of trying one more time.
Hapless is the story I’ve been singing.
It’s the truth I never meant to hide.
It’s the reason I’m still strumming
with no spotlight, just the sky.
This isn’t a cry for help.
It’s just a song for anyone
who’s ever been a little too late
and still showed up.

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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Hapless Rusty Marshall Band

The road don’t care what you’ve done.
It just asks if you’re still ....chasing thunder......
He lit his first smoke off a burning bridge.
Took his first punch with a grin and a twitch.
He’s got scars where names used to be.
And a throttle hand that don’t believe in peace.
He drinks like the past is still chasing him.
And rides like the future ain’t worth a sin.
He’s buried brothers in dust and flame.
and when he rides he calls their names.
He’s got blood on his boots and glass in his grin.
Every barroom brawl was a prayer to begin.
He don’t ask for mercy, don’t speak of regret.
He just pours another round and lights a cigarette.
The road is his gospel, the bike is his creed.
He’s chasing thunder — not hope, not need.
He rides with ghosts who never forgive.
And he swears that’s the only way to live.
No apologies, no second tries.
Just engines screaming under blackened skies.
If you ride with him, you ride and never tell
And you better be ready ...to ride through hell...
He’s chasing thunder — not dreams, not light.
Just the roar that drowns out the night.
He’s chasing thunder — through blood and bone.
Where the broken ride alone.
He’s chasing thunder — no brakes, no prayer.
Just a brotherhood built on dare.
He’s chasing thunder — and if you fall behind…
If your a brother ...gonna toss you a line
He found a brother broken down , lost in the dark.
No patch, no pride — just gun shot marks.
And for the first time, he didn’t speak.
Just held the man and made him believe.
They’d fought, they’d bled, took off chasing thunder
to save a brother that got pulled  under.
He didn’t cry, didn’t rage, didn’t run.
He just whispered, “your not done.”......chasing ....thunder.......!
Brotherhood ain’t built on grace.
It’s forged in fire and a thousand mistakes.
It’s the silence when the world goes black.
And the promise that you’ve got his back.
It’s not forgiveness — it’s the ride.
And the thunder you chase side by side.
He’s chasing thunder — not dreams, not light.
Just the roar that drowns out the night.
He’s chasing thunder — through blood and bone.
Where the broken ride alone.
He’s chasing thunder — no brakes, no prayer.
Just a brotherhood built on  each dare.
He’s chasing thunder — and if you fall behind…
If your a bother... gonna  toss you a line...
The road don’t care what you’ve done.
It just asks if you’re still ....chasing thunder.
chasing thunder......
chasing thunder.......chasing .....thunder.....

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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Chasing Thunder Rusty Marshall Band

He tuned his soul to the sound of chrome.
Raised on riffs and the rumble of home.
Leather and scars were the only truth.
He found his church in a barroom booth.
The road was long but the rhythm stayed.
Every mile was a debt he paid.
They don’t ask why — they just roll.
Gasoline hearts and rock and roll.
If you’ve got a brother at your side…
You don’t need a map for the ride.
Rock and ride — through the fire and the rain.
Through the breakdown, the bruises, the pain.
Rock and ride — with your boots on the line.
Every chord, every curve, every sign.
Rock and ride — when the world says no.
You throttle up and let it go.
Rock and ride — till the last goodbye.
And you’ll know who’s real when the engines die.
He’s seen the edge and he’s kissed the fall.
Watched good men fade behind the wall.
But when the music hits and the tires scream…
He remembers every outlaw dream.
They don’t cry — they burn and bend.
But they’ll bleed for a brother to the bitter end.
They don’t ask why — they just roll.
Gasoline hearts and rock and roll.
If you’ve got a brother at your side…
You don’t need a map for the ride.
Rock and ride — through the fire and the rain.
Through the breakdown, the bruises, the pain.
Rock and ride — with your boots on the line.
Every chord, every curve, every sign.
Rock and ride — when the world says no.
You throttle up and let it go.
Rock and ride — till the last goodbye.
And you’ll know who’s real when the engines die.
He’s older now but the fire’s still lit.
The road still calls and he won’t quit.
He sees his brother fighting for breath.
And it hits harder than love or death.
So he rides slower, but he rides true.
Because that’s what real brothers do.
Being a brother ain’t just blood and name.
It’s showing up when life’s a flame.
It’s the silence shared when words won’t land.
It’s the grip of a calloused hand.
It’s knowing you’d trade your pride and ride…
Just to keep your brother alive.
Rock and ride — through the fire and the rain.
Through the breakdown, the bruises, the pain.
Rock and ride — with your boots on the line.
Every chord, every curve, every sign.
Rock and ride — when the world says no.
You throttle up and let it go.
Rock and ride — till the last goodbye.
And you’ll know who’s real ....when the engines die.
Rock and ride....Rock and ride...Rock and ride

All rights reserved by songwriter and producer Edwin H. Balder.
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Ride and Rock Rusty Marshall Band

In the shadows of Apache Junction, at the foot of the majestic Superstition Mountains, sits a weathered hacienda. This desert oasis is home to an enigmatic figure, a songwriter whose journey reads like a long, dusty road of honky-tonk bars and college cafeterias. He wasn't chasing fame or glitter; instead, he chose the soul-crushing beauty of music for music's sake.

Years spent hunched over sticky barroom tables and scribbling lyrics on napkins earned him a reputation—not in the spotlight but in the back rooms where deals are made. He wrote melodies that found their way into the hearts of stars who had lost their own muse. He sold his creations for cash, with no recognition, but the whisper of his songs carried the weight of his soul.

Finally, he bought this piece of desert paradise—a stable income from his timeless songs allowed him to live comfortably, if anonymously. Here in this hacienda, with his family beside him and the mountains as his backdrop, he found the peace to write hits under his own name. He chuckled at the irony that now, without chasing fame, he could create music that brought him joy.

In the end, it was never about the spotlight. It was about the journey, the stories, and the songs that wrote themselves through his life. As the sun set behind the Superstitions, casting long shadows over the hacienda, he strummed his guitar and sang—content, unknown, and unburdened by the world's gaze.


Copyright 2019 Edwin H. Balder

I may be dead when fame comes but my real glory was always JULIE & The Kids. Thank you for such love

New tracks tagged #ClassicRock