* my momma passed in april of '43. at her funeral i remember wacthin' the rain hit the wood of her coffin as we set it in the dirt. she had a nice place to rest, with her momma and father next to her. none seen of my daddy though, he was lost off over seas in the first world war, same time as i was born here in birmingham. my momma always told me he was a kind man, a lovin' man. he took care of her and what she needed, fought hard for what he believed in. she told me that when he set off for war, she told him about bein' blessed with me, and he just smiled and told her how proud and strong i would grow up to be. and here i am, just finishin' up my basic, findin' my way into the same path my father did. i aim to please them, have them lookin' down on me, and me know i am doin' them right.
 
 
 
the red, white and blues
 
that whiskey burns goin' down. old man pour me another round, because it's my last night in town, and i ain't thinkin' of slowin' down. no i am fixin' to drown 'til i see the sun, or i can't see. because i got the blues, and the blues got me. i'm gonna make my momma proud, her boy on the front lines. and just like my daddy done, i ain't afraid to die. i ain't no fortunate one, but i am proud of what i done. and hardships, i seen some, but i ain't no coward, i don't turn and run. so i stumble home and pack up my old memories. pictures of ma, my daddy's flask she gave me. "keep it near your heart" she would always say. it's all he left and so that's where it will stay. and her leatherbound book of psalms and prayers, that she would always read with patience and care. a short walk to the cemetary to pay respect before i leave. 1901 to 1943. i run my fingers through her name and the effigy. the sun is
 up, and it's all i see. i got the blues and they still
got me. i'm gonna make my momma proud, her hopeful new recruit. and just like my daddy done, i'm gonna bleed red, white and blue.
 
 
* when i was about fifteen, my momma gave me a silver flask my daddy left her while he was away. he told her to keep a little bit in there, just in case she missed him too much, if she should need somethin' to ease the pain. i wish i had met him, i think we would have gotten along quite nice,  we both seem to have a dear friend in the drink. i spent a month or so gettin' pissed up and thrown out of every place in town, and i figure i walked by them recruitment posters thirty or so times before they took. but when they did, after ma died, my heart wouldn't settle for anything else. so i sobered myself up and found myself in front of a sargeant's desk, no older than me, signin' my life away for this country. if there was a place for me, it was with a gun
 in my hand. i met my captain the day we shipped out, he was from monroe county, just a few hours from me. it was nice to have someone else from alabama there with me, it reminded me of home.
 
 
the bite and sting
 
i've spent days in this trench in the snow, just my gun by my side. it's cold and wet and you're all alone up keepin' watch at night. the bite and the sting that the bitter cold brings reminds you, that you're still alive. the hope and the pride that we all hold inside seems to break when another boy dies. we ain't seen no germans for days, we're just tired and sore. and it feels like i'm wastin' away, so i drink from my flask to stay warm. every bomb miles away, every fading engine cry, still makes your heart start to race, keeps you prayin' at night. been too quiet, and too calm for somethin' not to be wrong, so we sit as brothers in arms. so we wait, and we shake, hear the roar of the tanks and the gunfire of the on-comin'
 storm. the ring in our ears, and the cold rush of fear overtakes us with the enemy in sight. i stagger, but don't falter, i aim and pull the trigger, and we fight. but it all happens so fast, the blur of the sweat in my eyes. but with every man i kill it seems two of my friends fall to die. i'm down on my knees, feel the pain in my gut, and the snow is covered in blood. i crawl to my captain's side, his head on my knee, says "see to it, that my grave is kept clean." i wake up in a hospital bed. there are rows and rows and rows of dyin' kids. and i know, my whole infantry is dead.
 
 
* i was back in alabama in late '44, after a few weeks of medics fixin' me up over seas. i only took one bullet, just a grazin' on my side, my daddy's flask stopped the other right in my breast pocket. but one bullet was all it took to take the lives of my friends. so i took a bus up to monroeville for the captain's service, i new i could never repay him for all the good he did for me at war, so i went to pay my last respects. and he would have done the same for me.
 
 
a wound and scar
 
i stand next to an empty grave where my friends will lay. i'll put their bodies down into their restin' place. i got a purple heart for a wound and scar, they just sent letters home that broke their families apart. the pallbearer's burden as heavy as my heart's hurtin', all the pain and guilt my head is ponderin'. why them and not me? did you ever hear that coffin sound? it means another poor boy is in the ground. have you ever heard them church bells toll? it means another poor boy is dead and gone. the preachers preach, holdin' folded flags. mothers mourn, holdin' folded flags. just caskets and folded flags. no hope, just folded flags. no hope.
 
 
* i had a few odds and ends type jobs around town for a while, sweepin' up at the barber's shop, shinin' shoes outside the bus station. but they only lasted weeks at a time, seemed even though i had lived here my whole life, i was just a stranger. i would visit my momma every once in a while, break down wishin' i was laid up next to her. i tried and i tried not to let life back home get the best of me, but it was so goddamned hard. with what little money saved, i usually spent on drinkin' and then payin' to sleep in a room above the bar. wasn't too bad, a lot of men like me that came home from the war with nothin', just a room and a bed was enough. one of the men livin' up there had his daddy's old guitar, and it was just about the prettiest thing i had seen. i played one years back that belonged to one of the boys on me ma's old block, and he taught me some slide and some pickin', but nothin' much. this man livin' up there with me, could he ever
 play. he'd stay up late in the night just pickin' his blues away, and boy did we have them blues.
 
 
home ain't never home
 
i'm wanderin' these streets alone, they don't feel like home. this once hallowed ground feels like a ghost town now. i'm on the street corners every day and at night i drink it away. this flask that saved my life, might be the death of me. ain't no man in this city will take a chance on me. the color of my skin is all they see. i was a hero when i came home, now no one seems to know. and this medal that i received, it means nothin' to me. i keep readin' my momma's prayers, but i find nothin' there that makes any sense to me. her god is no more than a thief. i'm gonna pack up, i'm gonna leave town on a train car headin' north bound. with my lost hope, i'm gonna get out, carry burdens, carry my guilt. i'm gonna leave. i carry burdens, my burden of watchin' good men fall and brave boys die. hearin' soldiers sob in the dead of night. every poor young soul that died in vain, every soldier lost in this country's name. my guilt, and my shame. no pride and no
 name, just burdens.
 
 
* years went by with me on the road, never noticin' just how fast time could pass. ridin' empty cabooses with other men in the same place as me, with nothin' and goin' nowhere. i seen more things in those years i ever thought possible, never knew how pretty this country could be. i'd sit and watch the landscape out the open rail car door, the untouched fields and trees, the cows in their pastures. it was all so beautiful to me. and then it was back to jumpin' off one set of tracks and hopin' the next, stoppin' off in some small town for a week lookin' for work. always the same, spit shinin' rich men's shoes while they wait for a bus or trolly car to work. and not one of them ever knew the man kneelin' in front of them fought to keep him safe in his easy life. so i'd get my things together with the money i made and move on. years and years like this can beat a man into the ground, but i kept movin' on. i think it was '59 when i had run into that guitar
 pickin' man from birminham in one of those train yeards. he told me he had gotten out like me to see the world, but he hadn't gotten too far just yet. we decided to keep travelin' north, til we got to one of them big cities, where no one would care what we looked like, or where we been, and we could just sit and play that guitar all day. because in a big place like that, some other men got to have the blues too. after a few more years, we found our way to new york. buildings goin' up to the sky, men like us goin' under ground.
 
 
singin' new york town
 
my saviour, this city. my comfort, her pity. or so i hoped. my heartache, my hard luck, my war time, my struggle that no one knows. in the alleys where i sleep, i beg and beg for the food i eat. all the pain and the hurt in your gut where it burns, every man here is just like me. the wind blowin' 'round the snow, makes a man freeze straight to the bone. so i drink and i drink and i try not to think of all the people i lost at home. these six strings i'm playin' and these songs i'm singin' keep me alive. these strangers that curse me, the hero they don't see, just waitin' to die. i ain't the man i used to be, i feel the city as it's crushin' me. i am losin' ground on these city streets, new york town has got the best of me. the southern ground where my momma sleeps, she found death and she found peace. there's an empty grave next to where she lay, the where i'm supposed to be. i beg and i plead for her god to hear me, he's just a coward, and a thief. i
 pray and i pray, if he is there to answer me, but i hear nothin'.
 
 
* after findin' our way to new york, it was back to just more of the same.  playin' on the street, shinin' shoes, cleanin' up in bars and houses for room and board. the color of your skin didn't seem to matter as much up here, but your time in war didn't seem to matter much either. no man would give you so much as a dollar a day, for any kinda work. i had gotten pretty good pickin' that guitar, and i tried to get in those coffee shops that seemed to be poppin' up all over now-a-days. but they didn't care much for my sound, said i just was a hillbilly. so i would just keep playin' where i could, put my hat down and just sing until my lungs were sore and my fingers would bleed. i won't ever forget that day i saw that young man watchin' me.  
 
 
beggin' in the slums
 
i ain't been sleepin' well these days. i lie awake listenin' to the trains wishing for one to come and take me away. i've lost my way every place i've been, i'm tired of thinkin' of all the hurt i've seen. wishin' for death to finally take me. my days are all the same, on the corners i beg and play. i blow my lungs out for some stranger's change. the nights are long and cold under bridges when you're all alone. the embers of the fire build like drifts of snow. i've been thrown out, i've been let down. never felt the promise of this town there was supposed to be when i left home. i am washed up, on my last breath. just an old man with nothin' left. it ain't the way it was supposed to be when i came home. my ups and my downs have burnt me out. these people watchin' me and the swan song that i sing. and in the crowd i see the eyes that have been broken down, just like mine. i hope my words dig deep, i hope he's listenin'. and sees what i've become, just a
 beaten man beggin' in slums. i found my hope, i finally found my hope in the poor lost soul's eyes that were burnin' just like mine.
 

It's amazing how many musical genes are related. I'm listening to "Travels" thinking it sounds like a mix between melodic hardcore, a bit of skate punk, old school punk rock, and even a bit of post-hardcore, and it's all instrument bashing, scream-as-hard-as-you-can fun. Cathartic releases do tend to be enjoyable, especially when you can feel that a band is doing it for themselves without thinking about anyone else in the room. The motion pours off just as raw as it's played, as the guitars seem to be beaten to the point where they're nearly out of tune, and in all the commotion, it sounds like some extra strings are hit in the attack.

Some highlights within the quick instrument destroying include "Prophet in Plain Clothes" with it's acoustic and clean-sung ending, exactly the song that would fit being played on the corner to earn money. There's the skate-punk chords running into noisy, jangly pot-hardcore in "Carring Weight". There's also the powerful slow jam of "Cowardice" at the end, where the band continue to pummel themselves at a slower rate than usual, taking some lighter breaks in between.

This was one of those albums where I had no idea what I was about to hear until I threw it in my CD player. Right off the bat from the first note though, I could tell I was in for an emotional roller coaster. No introduction, just a cavalcade of insanity.

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AVERSIONLINE.COM - http://www.aversionline.com/blahg/

"Travels" is the debut full-length from Boston's Defeater, who I had never heard of before, released by a label I had also never heard of before, Topshelf Records. So, I didn't know what to expect from this one, but the six-panel digipack and eight-page booklet look absolutely awesome, packed with some fucking incredible photography, so I was certainly hoping for/expecting something fairly strong. The result is 11 tracks of that style of contemporary hardcore that's both metallic and extremely melodic, having been compared to bands like Modern Life is War, Comeback Kid, and Verse, which does make some sense. It's an extremely diverse (though cohesive) blend of influences, from its more aggressive and discordant textures and almost straightforward hardcore power chords to its ringing post-hardcore dissonance and energetic bursts of those subtly technical little arpeggiated riffs. Hell, there's even a "folky" acoustic break at the end of "Prophet in Plain Clothes" that seems a little out of place at first, but fits into the narrative of the lyrics and actually settles in pretty well in the context of the whole. It's an impressive debut that sort of takes this lofty, artistic style of hardcore a little farther than most, which is quite promising.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Punk News - http://www.punknews.org/review/7664

I abhor the term "concept album." What had its birth in the overindulgence of ..70s arena rock has become the de facto term for what a band makes when they "mature." Sure, there are artists in the past few years that have actually made albums that tell a coherent story or stick closely to a theme, such as Cursive's excellent Happy Hollow, but for the most part bands misappropriate the term, like on Say Anything's In Defense of the Genre. I'm sorry, but if the concept is songs about your life, it's not really a concept album. Furthermore, if a band actually does succeed at sticking with an idea, it might miss the mark entirely. For an example of this, check out some of the wordy and awkward "only there to tell the story" lyrics and the overwhelming amount of musical filler on Boys Night Out's concept attempt, Trainwreck.

Upon initial inspection of Defeater's debut full-length, Travels, the band seems to avoid most of the trappings I've just laid out about the concept album. Through a nicely economical length of 11 songs in under 35 minutes, the band tells a chronological story set to a driving and desperate hardcore style, much in the vein of Modern Life Is War and Verse. While the MLIW comparison is obvious and will continue to be discussed by others, this feels more like the next step down the path that band began paving before their untimely demise than a straight rip. What set apart MLIW from its contemporaries was their narrative style and tension-building presence, and this is exactly the foundation that Defeater takes and runs with.

What will interest most people initially about this album is, of course, the story. Following a character from birth in 1945 until his death, the opening lyrics set the dark tone to follow: "Unwanted from his first breath, a mother's blessing born, a father's burden worn." From here the lyrics continue in a third-person narrative as we witness the child growing up in a string of unpleasant situations over the span of three songs. The fourth track, "Forgiver Forgetter" features the protagonist at 17 experiencing the turning point that shapes the rest of the story and sets him out on the album's namesake, Travels. Tracks 5-9 follow him through his road life before the album's finale takes him back home to confront what he left behind. Individually, the lyrics work and avoid storytelling cliché. Writing songs that coherently and chronologically tell a story cannot be an easy feat and when taken as a whole, the tale on Travels is raw and moving.

Within the narrative arch, the band sticks to their basic musical approach but takes a nice and wholly appreciated diversion in the middle of the record. During the track "Prophet in Plain Clothes," the lyrics find the protagonist walking through a town where he sees a vagrant playing a guitar and singing on a street corner. The song fades out with the lyrics "'Home is never home,' said the prophet in plain clothes as he strummed his guitar, and he screamed, and he sang…" before it fades into the actual song the bum is singing. It's a short acoustic folk song that reminds me of Bright Eyes, but serves as a good respite from an otherwise overpowering record.

Sonically, the band is muscular and unrelenting. While the recent trend for bands in this style has been to relax into a looser and more organic sound, Defeater takes the opposite approach and relies heavily on their technical musicianship and tight playing. However, even with everything exact at all times, it doesn't lose its emotional impact. Also worth noting is the drum performance by Andy Reitz. While sticking to the songs he still manages to add quite of bit of flash that should excite drum geeks everywhere.

Of course, with anything there are imperfections. Defeater's overall sound is often not easy to digest and requires patience and stamina on the part of the listener. There do exist a few hooks on this record but they are subtle and certainly don't expose themselves upon first listening. In addition, the album sounds like two long songs separated by the aforementioned acoustic interlude, but this isn't necessarily a bad thing since it is telling a story.

While I am usually not exited by the term "concept album" it is clear that Defeater succeeded with this one. It successfully leaves behind the clichés of heavy music and concept album overindulgence and in many ways hits a new artistic peak for hardcore.

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The Punk Site.Com - http://www.thepunksite.com/reviews.php?page=album/number_d/defeater_travels

I had not heard about about Defeater when I first saw them. The artwork, filled with grainy, black and white portraits of different people, grabbed my eye but the label kind of gave me some doubts. While Top Shelf Records was relatively new in the scene, the first two releases by them failed to strike my interest. A hybrid of The Used and Matchbook Romance, Across The Universe and Feels Like July were forgettable releases which in turn pushed Defeater lower in my review pile.

However, a four-star review praising the band from PunkNews forced me to pull the record out and give it an honest opportunity to wow me; and wow me it did.

This was not your run of the mill emo outing, far from it. Defeater was abrasive, abrupt, angry hardcore. It blasts out of the starting gates and never stops. It's an unrelenting attack of ferocious vocals alongside intricate and heavy guitars. It's technical while not following a certain trend of rampant breakdowns and chugging guitars. No, instead Defeater delivers a hardcore album akin to Modern Life is War that fits somewhere between the two dillingers - not as metallic as The Dillinger Escape Plan nor as punky as Dillinger Four. It falls somewhere in between the two acts, making it a delightful hardcore record. One that, while not the easiest to listen to, falls into place nicely and becomes a much needed reprieve from the current trend of making records so palpable. Instead, they take the hardcore sound and build on it with non-stop vigor and energy to create something that would make Bridge Nine proud (but its not as chaotic as Ceremony).

Despite that, the real appeal of the album comes from the lyrics; even though they are undecipherable most of the time. For you see, Defeater have made Travels into more than just a regular album - its a full fledged concept album. But unlike the current idea of concept albums, Travels actually follows the story perfectly. They tell the story of an unnamed man, from his birth in 1945 until his suicide. It tells the tragic tales of an unwanted son, a loving mother, a torturous brother and abusive father. Defeater follows the unnamed hero as he searches for an escape from his past, a new release and the final confrontation.

The most striking portion of the story always reveals around train tracks - both as a child and an adult; however the part that really sticks out comes on Prophet in Plain Clothes. Its halfway through the album, thus halfway through the life, and our faithful protagonist is homeless and wandering the streets. He sees a busker and the story goes "home is never home" said the prophet in plain clothes as he strummed his guitar and he screamed and he sang... it then breaks away from the hardcore outing and jumps into an oddly placed acoustic medley of what the plain clothes prophet is singing. It turns out to be a Bob Dylan song that, sadly, sounds more like Say Anything than Dylan. The two minute acoustic number jumps out and seems out of place amidst the chaotic nature of the album but it helps cement Defeater's investment in the story line; and offers the sole deviation from the hardcore nature of the songs.

Travels is not the easiest listen and not one I'll listen to constantly because it's not exactly up my alley. However, there's something in the unremitting attack by Defeater that has made me play it numerous times over the past few days. Maybe its the emotional screams teetering at the edge of destruction, maybe its the powerful drumming or pure intensity - maybe its just the story line. Whatever it is, Travels has made an album that stands out in the crowd and that's saying something.-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Paste Punk - http://pastepunk.com/reviews.php?v=2615

Boston's DEFEATER have several pretty cool things going for them: (1) the band includes Jay Maas, whose Getaway Recordings studio is a focal point for up-and-coming hardcore music; (2) they are buddies with bands like VERSE and HAVE HEART, and VERSE's Sean Murphy makes a guest appearance on Travels; and (3) the group was smart to change their name to the somewhat banal DEFEATER away from the somewhat repugnant SLUTS. Travels is the group's first full-length release and falls into the realm of ambitious, viciously swift hardcore that inescapably brings to mind GIVE UP THE GHOST and MODERN LIFE IS WAR (especially in the vocals), but manages to loosen the stranglehold of those connotations. What separates DEFEATER from the pack is the band's dual-guitar attack that grabs a hold of you from both sides and sublimely suggests that the musicianship is seasoned beyond the middle of the bell curve. "Blessed Burden" and "Everything Went Quiet," set the tone for Travels with breakneck tempos and compelling shifts in momentum, and chilled-down talking parts. "Nameless Streets," is peppered with tension and details the story of lives hardened by addiction, while "Forgiver Forgetter," is a percussive showing of jarring force, and "The City By Dawn, " is nothing short of epic. DEFEATER keep up the aggression from their as Travels rides into the sunset after a white-hot 32 minutes. These guys may be a product of contemporary musical tastes, but their awesome show of talent makes them a true diamond in the rough.

roll on through to the other side of town. passed the quarry, the river beds, over bridges and bunker sheds. roll on through to the pits and the rail car yard. "this is where you prove your worth." a brother's dare, that devil's smirk. "oh, this is the way it will always be." a kid brother in the shadows of a cold heart's legacy. "oh, this is where we see who runs first. it's you and me and the train. the steel tracks and the dirt. oh, you can never live up to me." and so he stood trembling, waiting for smoke above the trees. roll on through. he could feel it rumbling, he could feel it beneath his feet. roll on through. "closer now, hold your ground. steadfast, ignore the sound." everything went quiet just before the rush took over his head. the pull and the push of the engine, think back with the coal and the steam. the racing thoughts, the questions, the adolescent rivalry. and with a nod from the elder, the younger's fear topples over. over rails and over timber. "that's no dodge, you fucking coward." and the train rolls on. "yellow-belly go home." and the train rolls on.

as a kid the summers seemed so long. the dusk a never ending song. too much, too young. he'd never hear it again. a walk through the dismal streets, the alleys where the junkies sleep. too much, too young. "that will never be me." slow, hand in hand to the boardwalk's end. his mother's words like the biting wind. "please don't leave me." he'll never hear them again. "keep quiet, stay out of sight." her sunken eyes that used to burn so bright. "please don't leave me." so he hid pressed against the wall, under stairs in the darkened hall. the sound of heartbreak reminded him of home. shadows move slow across the floor, a minute seemed like a day or more. the end of heartache when she opened the door. the sights, sounds, smell of burnt out shame, pride, spite and love. they all come here to die. he sobs, "please take me a away. please mother bring us home safe on nameless streets the way we came." suddenly she prayed for better days and for redemption. sullenly she prayed to keep from harm's way and for conviction. but there's no forgiveness here. no hope beyond that pier. no way to get out now, not for her in this dead end town. and that drunk is waiting up, him and jack and the empty cup. "where you been? what you on? who'd you fuck?" one more drink to toast "good luck". she gets a stiff hand from the old like the bourbon he's been drinking. black out.

january, 1962 he awoke in a cold sweat to those old sounds of heartbreak. his brother at his side screaming "this isn't your fight". but that rush took over his head and he came to his mother's side. and he found himself alone with that devil rambling. "oh, well the money's all gone and she can't pay the rent with that needle in her arm." he clenched his fists. "what did she ever do to you, but raise us by herself when you were too drunk to come through?" he took a swing. "that's some nerve you got kid." "yeah well they'll put that on your tombstone as the last thing that you said. i never wanted to kill a man, like i want to kill you man." the years of pain boiled over, trading blows across the counter. and when that devil was down he grabbed for his empty old friend jack. he caught his eye as he took his last breath and that vice went to his head again and again. "dear god what have you done?" cried out his mother. "that devil drunk was no father. another name on a list for unpaid bookies and gambling debts." that spiteful stare of his brother. "i ain't no forgiver or forgetter. i'll make you pay for this when you least expect it." he washed the blood from his hands, kissed his mother and stepped into cold night air.

hard rain fell. chalk it up to a failure. push through the cold weather. racing heart, slow the beat, push through the defeat. no one knows, just push through the deadbeats, junkies, liars and cutthroats. the same walk, the same pier. no one's going to remember him here. "just walk until you reach those long steel tracks." that old familiar sting, the memories of rivalry. years passed and it's still here. the same dirt, the same rails, the same fear. and all the years of giving in rushed through his head again. with no loss to match his gain, he rolled on to hop that train. that rain fell hard. chalk the miles from his failure. trees sway with the weather. racing heart, slow the beat. every crossed town line is relief. with no money and no name, state lines, borders rivers are all the same. the city by dawn, a stranger with no history comes. "just rest your head where the sun sets. fade out at sun down."

he walks the streets collar up to the snowfall. holes in pockets and knees. sleeps in bar rooms and horse stalls. but you can't stay too long in one place. "move along kid, we don't like your face." mother's hold children close out of fear. father's curse under breath as they sneer.  he walks the streets, years pass by with the snowfall. time is wasted in drink, days begging and lost souls. holds no merit in vagrants in boxcars. down in hell you best know who your friends are. "not so proud scrounging for your next meal. no alibis sold when with devils you deal. how does it feel to be all alone with no direction? home is never home, it's just the place where you came from." "home is never home," writ on walls of the church and the hostels. "home is never home," said by martyrs and lost souls. "home is never home," said the prophet in plain clothes as he strummed his guitar. and he screamed, and he sang.

that soap box song stuck in his head. burdens lie in graves past by. he carries his weight. that anthem for the disenchanted rings loud in waves of grain. heavy hearted hymns heard in slums fade out on those country roads. hope burning in his lungs. days pass, weeks pass. sleeping under sky. days pass, weeks pass. days turn into nights. sleep sound, the sun's out. sleep long, sleep well. days pass, weeks pass. memories come flooding back, he prays his mother's god has saved her soul. that soap box song still in his head. miles lost to heat and rain. he carries his weight. that message for the misdirected rings true to this day. heavy hearted hymns sung in fields. he stops along that country road to listen as they sing. "swing low, swing low chariot for me. swing low, swing low. pray my soul to keep." "rest now, the sun's down. rest long, rest well." "swing low, swing low." redemption lies in an old farm house, "room and board for the strong hands we need. all i can offer is roof over head. another day, another dollar."

"if you're always running, you ain't no kind of man. face up your fears kid, fight for what you take stock in. out here on rolling hills, there ain't no alibis. only sweat and dirt, only that open sky. if you take nothing more than these simple words, with your head held high kid, you will have your day. you can leave hardened, i won't think twice of it. if you got a battle back home, you got no reason to stay." out there on rolling hills, he thought of days back home. all the pain and hurt, his mother praying alone. sleep never came for him, no rest for wicked men. in those starless skies, the moon shined shame on him.  he found redemption in pale saints that took him in. his grey eyes, hopefulness, that only youth can feel before life sours them. "where you from, where you been?" the boy would ask. he could never answer, it was the truth he lacked. "i'm from nowhere kid, i've been to hell and back. i'm a loner kid, i got no grace and no tact." he had nothing more than those simple words. he was a runner and a coward always losing his way. still no sleep for him. "i ain't no wicked man." there would be no night like this for him ever again. he would change his fate, he would mend the breaks. he left that night with parting words to lead his way. "don't you be like me." and so that moonlit sky shined praise down on him.

september, 1969.  he found himself waiting again. out at the crossroads, out on the lam. this time not running, this time by right. a road-side hitcher waits for headlights. "the blues won't bring me down." that pick-up truck stopped. "where you headed, kid?" "back to the boardwalk coast to fix the wrong i did." that old man would bring him just as far as he could. his hellhound sniffing out for a trace of any good. the hope he's chasing. the blues he carried are dead and buried.

it still looks the same here after all these years. the junkies and the steamboat men, the sun never set on them here. he walks to his rundown home, hell-bent to find his mother, but all that fear comes back when he is greeted by his brother. "it's not the same here." "oh, i never thought you would come right to me. i've spent years on these docks just waiting after you left, we were left with nothing. every day what you did ran through me. you selfish fuck. it's your fault, can't you see? your addict mother is dead. now, are you happy? you're left with nothing. now, you'll pay your debt to me. you coward cheating thief. down at those long steel tracks, your life is my payback." "i bet you wish you were dead." they walk the rails with a gun to his head. and so he lay on the ties, just waiting. those racing thoughts through his head came rushing. he slips out from the weight of the elder. the younger's fear once again toppled over. and now it's his upper hand, he sees the steam overhead. this will be the last the elder breathes again. roll on through, that train bearing down. as it ended his days, he somehow knew it would always be this way. so ends that cold heart's legacy.

"there's no place for me." a man of nowhere, a man of black heart from the dead end streets. "regret runs through me. i am no one, i am nothing, i am a man of defeat. what's left for me?" he thought of those open roads, his mother praying alone, that vagrant anthem and the field sung hymns, the cowardice forever following him. "what's left for me? the world has turned it's back on me. there's no place for me." a sullen walk to the chapel stairs. "regret runs through me." a hard pull on that white oak door to face up those fears. "what brings you here my son?" "i've been a horrible man. i killed my father, i killed my brother, i left my mother in your god's hands." "clasp your hands and count your sins. kneel at the pew." and so the sermon begins. "no judgment cast down this day, will set you free. you are forgiven my son, you are blessed and redeemed. you've found absolution here son, but only from me." "what's left for me?" a sullen walk to the steeple top to look over the city. he carves his name in that old brass bell, so when it rings he can hear it in hell. one last look to that western sky, one last wish he could have changed his life. "i ain't no wicked man." he let his fleet slip from under him. unwanted.