awesome lyrics..awesome tune.. awesome Video..👏

Ain't That Like My Masterpiece

Composed & produced by: Chivicke
HomeStudio Productions ©2022
Artwork: Zumrad-Normatova

Desert Song

Generation +/ - Love

MULBERRY HILL GAL tells the story of a guy who gave a country gal a lift one night on Mulberry Hill.  They got a talking and decided to go to a road side bar and both had a great connection and chemistry.  The guy is desperate to find hear and is combing Mulberry Hill to find her to profess his love for her.

Mulberry Hill Gal is an updated and reworked version of my very first song I ever wrote back in 1982.  I would like to dedicate this song to the memory of my dear friend Mr. Danny Arseneau who passed away on June 17, 2000 at the age of 38 years due to a tragic accident in his home.  Danny and I went to high school together in Chateauguay, Quebec and also attended Dawson College together for a while.  Danny later joined the Canadian Armed Forces.  
We would spend hours in our basements playing our guitars and "making noise" as our parents called it.  We actually entered my song and played it at a music talent show held at Dawson College.  It was very well received by the crowd of students and we actually won a prize for best original song.  What a great audience and time.  Hope you enjoy!
Cheers
Wally

TIMELESS

MULBERRY HILL GAL

Mulberry Hill Gal

Cerulean

All it takes is one phrase
That has some lucidity
To answer all the questions 
Too complex to let you sleep

And then it gets into your head
To the point that you relent
And convert who you are
To their cause

The fear is where this operates
The fear is where this infiltrates

And there are slogans that they use
That have a simple message to
Make something black and white seem true
But there is no single line
There is no magic sign
No way to change all these grey times

The fear is where this operates
The fear is where this infiltrates

The fear is where this operates
The fear is where this infiltrates
The fear is where this pain is lost
The fear is where we see the cost

Music and lyrics - Tom Booth-Robinson

© all rights reserved 2024

Fear Driven

Harmonies inspired by Cool Minor Blues Groove | Guitar Jam Track In A Minor (80 BPM) (Youtube). Vocals from Steinberg Soulful RnB Vocals library

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Depeche Mode Cover, voice by SoulFood SoundDesign, music by Automatenfall 

☆SHOUT☆ (Depeche Mode Cover) feat. SoulFood SoundDesign

Cover of Taylor Dayne's TELL IT TO MY HEART

COVER Taylor Dayne Tell It To My Heart

Cover Taylor Dayne's Tell It To My Heart  DJ HERO Feat Electra Volcana

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---Lyrics---
[Verse 1]  
Rolled in wearin’ boots that seen better days,  
Denim torn like the roads I blaze
Old V-twin hummin’ gospel blues,  
Gravel kicks up like Sunday news.  
Shame in a flask of black-label rye,  
Parked by the steeple, let a sinner try.  
[Chorus ]
I’m layin’ chrome at the chapel gate,  
Hands on the tank, beggin’ Heaven to wait.  
Ain’t got silver, silk, or luck—  
Just a busted heart and an empty truck.  
Let the whiskey be the wafer, the weight be the wine;  
If I pour it in the dust, redraw my line.  
Pull me back from that moonlit flood—  
Here I stand, red-clay and blood. 
[Verse 2]
Most folks whisper when they talk my name,  
Bar-room legend with a lonesome flame.  
Bottle’s been my barn-dance friend,  
Two-step devil with a crooked grin.  
Tried quittin’ cold, but the cold got warm,  
Now I’m knockin’ where the prayers are born. 
[Chorus ]
I’m layin’ chrome at the chapel gate,  
Hands on the tank, beggin’ Heaven to wait.  
Ain’t got silver, silk, or luck—  
Just a busted heart and an empty truck.  
Let the whiskey be the wafer, the weight be the wine;  
If I pour it in the dust, redraw my line.  
Pull me back from that moonlit flood—  
Here I stand, red-clay and blood. 
[Bridge]
Dust on the hymnbook, tear on the page,  
Fiddle cries soft like a front-porch sage.  
If mercy’s a river, let it rise and run,  
Wash this outlaw ’til the battle’s won. 
[Chorus ]
I’m layin’ chrome at the chapel gate,  
Hands on the tank, beggin’ Heaven to wait.  
Ain’t got silver, silk, or luck—  
Just a busted heart and an empty truck.  
Let the whiskey be the wafer, the weight be the wine;  
If I pour it in the dust, redraw my line.  
Pull me back from that moonlit flood—  
Here I stand, red-clay and blood. 

---Story---
They say the night still smells like gasoline an’ cheap rye down at Sparrow Fork, right where the black-top spits ya straight into Pine-Needle County. That stretch of road’s darn near a legend ’round here, ’cause that’s where Boone “Chrome” McCafferty finally slammed the kickstand on his shovelhead Harley and dragged his sorry hide up to St. Brigid’s chapel—chrome so bright the sunrise bounced off it like wildfire.

Boone weren’t no choirboy, not by a dang mile. Folks knew him as a bar-room wolf with a busted grin, packin’ more warrants than church stamps. He’d spent twenty-odd years swappin’ prayers for poker chips, so when the jukebox quit singin’ and his best friend Jack Daniels started talkin’ back, Boone figured the devil done called in the tab.

But it’s funny how a song gets stuck in your craw. One night, him half lit on barrel-strength hope, that new country track—“Chrome at the Chapel Gate”—come blastin’ through a dented ’78 pickup outside. The hook punched him square: I’m layin’ chrome at the chapel gate, hands on the tank, beggin’ Heaven to wait. Boone chuckled first, then felt it claw at his gut. Turns out a melody can feel like a barrel to the chest when it’s pointin’ at the truth.

So he lit out before dawn, ridin’ south through whippin’ wind and thunder so big it sounded like God cockin’ a twelve-gauge. No saddlebags, no map—just a half-dry flask and a story itchin’ to change its endin’.

By sunrise, his tires rolled over the white gravel lane headin’ to St. Brigid’s—the old clapboard chapel that sits crooked on a hill like a tired mother. Boone killed the engine. The hush felt heavier’n iron. Cicadas hissed. A lone crow razzed him from a cross-beam. He figured Heaven sent hecklers...

The rest can be found on the website, link up top.

Chrome at the Chapel Gate

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Rock n roll has been a fun ride but for now county is calling the soul once again. You can easily navigate genres in the Playlist section.

Strumming their way through heartbreak, hilarity, and highway hijinks, The Artificial Home Wreckers are a country rock band like no other. Born from a chance encounter at a roadside diner with a broken jukebox, these renegades of rhythm specialize in songs that sound like a wild Friday night and feel like a hungover Saturday morning.

Their music is a cocktail of twangy guitars, foot-stomping beats, and lyrics that toe the line between tragic and downright ridiculous. From ballads about exes who "borrowed" their truck (and forgot to return it) to anthems about that one unforgettable karaoke night gone horribly wrong, they’ve got a tune for every lovable misfit out there.

Catch them on tour (if their GPS actually works this time), and remember their motto: “Breaking homes one chorus at a time!”

Chrome at the Chapel Gate

The Artificial Home Wreckers

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