some time ago now, I first met these two, up here above the city in our empire state.
this happened:
i was living in my recently deceased mothers house, working on some of my things and being familiar with the area's woods. one winter night, in parts i know well, i hear some strange sounds riding on the tails of the cold breeze. i make my way through the abandoned old bungalow colony, and come to the sort of scene you never think to expect but love to see. like running into her at the store or the diner, and only then realizing that she was in your dream last night. i think i frightened them when i approached, these two young guys. they'd built a fire out here, and they were sitting around singing old-time tunes. all wrapped up in articles of flannel and wool, keeping company with a guitar, a few harmonicas, an old marching drum, and the bottle of cutty sark that comes with a free flask at the most popular store in town. after i help the struggling fire, i set down in the cradle of warmth from the growing flames, and we sing until all the wood has turned to coal and ash.
back at my place i give them their invisible family tree. from the civil war camps, to the cotton fields, to the saloons, to the migrant camps, to the hollers, to the pulpits, to the mines, to the union halls. i give them the records and books and truths and myths that they never possessed.
but they already know this, somehow, somewhere, like the dream you never remember.
i heard them singing all alone by the fire that they'd come to build, and i know they know.
i just figure to help them find out.
the trunk of this invisible tree is made of a righteous sadness, a resilient suffering. when you're lonely you hang your head in silence, but when you get so lonesome there ain't one thing to do but sing out. to your mother, or your lover, or your far-away soul, or that great mystery spirit that hasn't turned it's back on you yet.
this tree sways with a rhythm that either makes you want to dance or cry, or do both at the same time. it's not a musical thing about notes or tempos or melodies. if you know, then you know it when you hear it, and i heard its traces that winter night, flickering like the little fire they built behind the old bungalows.
in this tree, the only audience is the singers broken heart.

some time later, i received a letter in the mail containing a tape they recorded. after that night, they went home and started a band. now, microphones and tape recorders tend to make an overcrowded audience, once its no longer just the singer and their broken heart. but everything is not lost to intention on this tape. some of them can sing, and some can't. some can really play their instrument, while others barely stumble by. but there's a genuine feeling that comes through, that's more important than any of the tunes or the words.
it certainly ain't perfect, but you can tell that a distant dream is being remembered, and it comes from the wood of that great invisible family tree.

b. pilgrim 2008