Monday, November 17, 2014

Artist of the Day: The Ghost of Paul Revere (17 Nov. 2014)

Back in the first days of The Indie Attic Girls blog, I frequented an "Artist of the Day" post. It's time to bring back some tradition (After all, winter is the master season of remembering tradition!).

Today's artist is The Ghost of Paul Revere.

I stumbled upon these guys while endlessly clicking on Spotify's music suggestions. . .a task I'm not ashamed to admit turns from 10 minutes of music discovery to 2 hours.  The Ghost of Paul Revere is a 4-piece "holler-folk" string band from Buxton, Maine.  Their eclectic sound hones harmonies akin to Mumford & Sons and CSNY, while bringing the soul with gospel rhythms and lyrics. Influenced by the Beatles and Elmore James, they combine two unique traditional styles of music played in an untraditional fashion.  Max Davis, Sean McCarthy, and Griffin Sherry, childhood friends, formed the band in 2011 with the addition of Matt Young.

Their single "After Many Miles" showcases their solid three-part harmony accompanied by a simple heart-pounding foot stomp/hand clap combo; think about what it would sound like for Queen to do an acoustic version of "We Will Rock You" with the addition of a North American autumn-inspired lyrics and you've got The Ghost of Paul Revere.

This summer I'm hoping to see them perform if I make it back to Maine! The link below shows them performing in a studio interview in Portland, ME. . .they look like the perfect summer night (copyright YouTube and 'Live At The Studio Portland' productions).

Live At The Studio Portland - The Ghost of Paul Revere


Saturday, November 15, 2014

Branching Out [Vlog]

I haven't done a video blog post like this for 2 years so thought I would switch it up! Have had a lot of thoughts swimming around in my head the past few weeks as I've been reading "Praying Like Jesus" by James Mulholland.  One of those little things I say every Sunday but have never really examined what the prayer is requesting. Something I've been thinking about and hoping to get others to think about.

Have a fab weekend!!


“[To have Faith in Christ] means, of course, trying to do all that He says. There would be no sense in saying you trusted a person if you would not take his advice. Thus if you have really handed yourself over to Him, it must follow that you are trying to obey Him. But trying in a new way, a less worried way. Not doing these things in order to be saved, but because He has begun to save you already. Not hoping to get to Heaven as a reward for your actions, but inevitably wanting to act in a certain way because a first faint gleam of Heaven is already inside you.” 
― C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

Saturday, November 8, 2014

poetry corner #5

As I've hit a writer's block the past couple of months I scrounged around for some of my old class notebooks.  Junior year at Westminster I took Dr. Swerdlow's poetry class, one of my favorite courses during my 4 years of university.  In my class journal, I'd scribble down some of his best quotes that helped to shape the creativity of my writing.  Looking through the archives I was reminded that blank pages are intimidating, poetry is like religion, writing isn't always comfortable but it slows us down when everything else seems a bit hectic.  And for this, I'm thankful.  We can never be perfect at what we do, sometimes we'll hate our work and others won't appreciate it, but we should never give up on what we love just because we've hit a brick wall; just find a different way to break through it :)


“Nothing is as intimidating as a blank page.”
“Poetry is not unlike religion. . .pairing suffering with beauty.”
“Take time to reflect on what you’ve been doing, if your poems can slow you down and allow you to dwell in that moment. . .be thankful.”
“Maybe it’s not the comfortable poem to write, but maybe you get more texture.”
“It may be that you didn’t put enough of the world into your poem for us to see it”

In November country,
strangers sip coffee
beneath umbrellas
for one-lane dirt roads,
and grey, impending skies.

Yellowed novel pages,
autumn's brown debris,
rest between knobby knees
bumping against a bus window,
her awful bare bones draped
with whiskey shivers.

His green army jacket
conceals a black suit;
stained with mustard
and cigarette burns,
it smells of cinnamon and patchouli,
remnants from a visit
to his grandma's.

Exchanging green glass whispers,
they joke about the weather,
as it pitters, patters,
and don't question
where he's going
or where she's been.

xx Hill