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Title:Crowder
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Crowder
Home
AMERICAN PRODIGAL
Touring Stops
MOVING PICTURES
Family History
Listen
Welcome
GENERAL STORE
Contact
Home
AMERICAN PRODIGAL
Touring Stops
MOVING PICTURES
Family History
Listen
Welcome
GENERAL STORE
Contact
GET THE NEW ALBUM BY CROWDER
Purchase on iTunes | Stream on SpotifyDownload Digital Booklet
AMERICAN PRODIGAL TOUR
MORE UPCOMING SHOWS
MOVING PICTURES聽
PHOTOS
Oct 11, 2016
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FAMILY HISTORY
I come from a town divided. Texarkana, Texas, USA. I barely made it into our fine Republic. The town is positioned, geographically, in the northeastern corner of the state, with half of the city proper hanging over into Texas and the other half juttin鈥 over into Arkansas. 鈥淭exarkana is Twice as Nice!鈥 is what the water tower says. Stateline Avenue splits the municipality right down the middle and if you follow it all the way downtown you鈥檒l run smack into the city post office that sits right atop the bi-state dissection. There鈥檚 a sign there to prove it. It鈥檚 a scarecrow post type situation with two metal objects hanging out to either side of it, one in the shape of Texas and one in the shape of Arkansas. At the foot of the sign there is a white line painted on the concrete. It鈥檚 presumed to be a photographic opportunity. You can stand there with one foot on one side of the line and one foot on the other and be in two states at the same time. I鈥檝e stood right there, with my feet on either side of the divide, and you know what? I couldn鈥檛 feel a thing.
I moved from Texas to Georgia a few years ago. Atlanta, GA, to be exact. When I first got there, I landed in a pretty rough part of town called, Atlanta. That鈥檚 a joke you can... make if you live in Atlanta. We get to make that joke. You cannot. Until you have a permanent address with a water bill to prove it. The specific part of Atlanta I landed in is called, Cabbagetown. It鈥檚 a quaint mill town with shotgun houses all gridded in near proximity to the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill. The company that built the mill originally officed out of the former Atlanta Slave Market House, which it soon outgrew. In the early 1880鈥檚 it began construction on a complex of buildings east of downtown on the south side of the Georgia Railroad line. The owners of the newly constructed mill would drive trucks up into the Appalachian mountains and load them down with folks looking for work; and these folks, mostly poor Scots-Irish, settled in those gridded shotgun houses that had been erected just for them. Over the past decade, the mill has been converted into a planned socioeconomically diversified residential space that just so happened to be the first thing to come up on the internet machine when my wife, Toni, typed in, 鈥淎tlanta loft apartments鈥. And that鈥檚 how our Georgia adventure began and how we wound up living in Cabbagetown in the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill.
A year or so after arriving in Cabbagetown, I began work on my first album as a solo-artist entitled, Neon Steeple. I am a fragile human and was nervous that this, the working on my first album as a solo-artist, might be a terrible idea. Because, well, this time, it would be all my fault. The act of blame displacement is humanity at its most adept. (i.e. Adam, the first man [addressing God], 鈥淯m. But. She gave me the fruit!鈥) In a band, there is the company of compatriots to spread the blame fairly amongst. I chose to combat the negative automatic thoughts associated with this type of individual endeavor with positive cognitive rebuttals.
Such as, 鈥淭his feeling is uncomfortable, but I can do this.鈥 And, 鈥淚鈥檓 a capable person who can do many things without the help of others.鈥 And, 鈥淵ou can do it!鈥 I tried not to let myself worry about anything more than just getting my insides, outside.
At that time, I was thinking a lot about roots, and home, and place, and belonging. Which makes sense, seeing as I had never lived anywhere outside of the Lone Star State of Texas. The lyrics read like pop colloquial Southern Gospel and the music sounded like bluegrass electronic dance music. Growing up in East Texas, country and western, and bluegrass, and southern gospel were just things in the air, as unavoidable as sweat tea. And too, coming of age in the 80鈥檚, spending superabundant amounts of time in front of the television playing Atari and Nintendo with all those 8-bit beeps-and-blips, well, it鈥檚 no wonder that if I were gonna try to get the soul of who I was as a person out into the open, the banjo and fiddle would be sittin鈥 right up next to the 808 kick drum. 鈥淔olktronica," was the proper name for it if we were to have to name a thing as slippery as music. It was front porch hand and foot music with ones and zeros. And there I was, in a new locale called Cabbagetown, trying to find my roots. And you know what? Turns out, that street I landed on, the one with the mill, yeah, it鈥檚 where country music was born. For real. True story! As I said, I didn鈥檛 know it at the time, but remember all those mill workers that were fetched down from the Appalachians? Well, they brought their music with them, banjos and fiddles in tow. Cabbagetown was country before country was country.
Look it up on the internet machine. Nashville could鈥檝e been Atlanta.
Funny thing about roots, they take in whatever the soil provides. I don鈥檛 know if I would have seen it any other way, but when I looked up, after a couple of years in the ATL, I realized that my first solo album was incredibly, what do you call it? 鈥淲hite.鈥 Which is understandable. Seeing as I am, like, 鈥渨hite.鈥 I mean, I鈥檓 extremely, 鈥渨hite.鈥 Like, literally, my skin is that pastie, British-English-White (BEW) that bursts into flames when exposed to direct sunlight. Add to that the whole Texarkana, Texas thing and the overall vibe, I guess you鈥檇 call it, that I鈥檓 sending out, is like, hillbilly-homeless with an East Texas accent, that on the global spectrum of accents, falls into the infraredneck frequency range. What is beautiful about Atlanta, and far different from everywhere else I鈥檝e lived, is that most of the time I鈥檓 outnumbered.
So, there I am, a pastie, white, bearded, infraredneck, hillbilly-talking dude trying to say something about roots and home and belonging while sinking roots and finding a new home and true belonging in this hyper-globalized and diversified city of Atlanta, GA. It didn鈥檛 take me long to consider the following: the banjo is an African instrument; the fiddle is an African instrument.
On the other side of the tracks, the ones I mentioned earlier that the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill sits on, is the Old Fourth Ward. That鈥檚 where freedom was born. If you have not established permanent residency in Atlanta, as in, you still cannot produce a water bill to prove it, you may not know that the Old Fourth Ward is the birthplace of reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. and ishome of the Ebenezer Baptist Church where Dr. King was baptized and where he and his father and his grandfather were pastors. Yeah, that鈥檚 right across the tracks from Cabbagetown.
Mrs. Panell told me the parable of the Prodigal Son in Sunday school. I was still of the age where they brought us cookies and Kool-aid and we still played games like Mother May I and we still made neat freaking stuff out of popsicle sticks and glue. But as I grew up, the Prodigal story never really evolved or developed much more nuance than how I first heard it in Sunday school. Seemed like a prodigal was someone who left home and acted out in rebellious ways until thoroughly depleting any and all means of acting out in rebellious ways, at which point the prodigal returns home to a welcoming, ever loving father who is running toward him with open arms, party in tow. Which is pretty darn beautiful.
But I think the real story, the one worthy of an italicized title designating the start of a new allegorical tale as told by the Son of God in the middle of a gospel, The Parable of the Prodigal Son, is way more indicting than just calling out a rebel.
Turns out the word 鈥減rodigal鈥 is an adjective meaning 鈥渓avish鈥. At the very beginning of the story, which may be the most puissant, the father bestows his inheritance on both of his sons. Both are lavished upon by the father. As an American, currently living in Atlanta, GA, USA, I know what it means to be lavished upon. To find our place on this planet, here in such a land of blessing, what shall we do with what has been placed upon us?
IF EVER THERE WERE A PLACE DIVIDED鈥
The current social and political atmosphere, even on a prefatory level, can give rise to a ruinous reduction in your sense of well being. Watching the news, or reading editorials, or op-editorials, or listening to the people at the table next to yours at Denny鈥檚, brings on a sadness no amount of bacon can service. I鈥檝e tried. But I think that we are all a lot more the same than we are different. We鈥檙e all just dirt and water and the breath of God. It鈥檚 just a painted line. Or, some railroad tracks. Either way, it鈥檚 a thing someone put there without asking. Maybe, what I鈥檓 supposed to be doing, having been lavished upon, is pointing out that a person can stand right there in the divide, brave and free, and not feel a thing. I know what it means to have the divide spanned on my behalf.
Grace works on us all just the same. Love works on us all just the same. Freedom works on us all just the same. There鈥檚 only one definitive line and that鈥檚 the one between death and life. These songs are about that divide spanned on our behalf and I pray they are subversive and healing in their insistence of that reality.
American Prodigal
by Crowder
Purchase on iTunesStream on Spotify
0:34
Run Devil Run
Crowder
0:31
Forgiven
Crowder
0:34
Keep Me
Crowder
0:32
Prove It
Crowder
0:32
My Victory
Crowder
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