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#Copperhead road is a classic
myimaginaryradio · 13 days
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Copperhead Road - Steve Earle - 1988
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musicman69love · 4 months
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Steve Earle's Classic Copperhead Road LP released in 1988. This, is the good stuff.
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vasiktomis · 2 years
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Enclosed Spaces (18+)
Pairing: Travis Hackett/Gender-neutral Reader. Solo. Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~4000. Warnings: Sexualisation of a cop (yuck). Passing mentions of gore and violence. Depictions of paranoia. Read it on Ao3!
Tags: No use of Y/N. Light angst. Self-hatred. Masturbation. Pining. Premature ejaculation.
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There’s a particular sense of dreariness in diners nowadays, Sheriff Hackett has decided.
It wasn’t always like this. Back before smartphones and the internet — hell, even cable TV — before technology and fast tourism had made damn clear how cut-off from society old communities like North Kill were, Travis had spent his adolescence looking forward to breakfast outings wedged in vinyl booths with his family on this particular stretch of forest road. Even in his youth, it was decades past its zeitgeist, but as a rare treat offered by parents who prided themselves on self-sustainability, he and his brothers had once loved coming here.
The Hacketts were an introverted people by nature, but they held the respect of the county-folk for their dedication to keeping North Kill from being wiped off the map. As time passed and the population dwindled, only the most well-established locals seemed to persevere. Businesses rotated through owners almost yearly. One brother was born. Then the next. Travis's family, while ever-changing, were among the only constants he knew. Them, and this meagre little diner, nestled in the trees. 
It was always the same. 
Bobby, forever the baby, would be shoved between Ma and Pa’s elbows while they traded conversation with whatever locals stopped by to chat. Chris, while closer to Bobby's age, suffered enough middle child syndrome to boost him half a decade to keep up with Travis. On their side of the booth, the two of them would brag to each other in the hopes of catching the attention of pretty wait staff. 'A copperhead bit me once while I was hunting with Pa, but I was too strong and the poison gave me powers. I have the tooth, still.' Chris would almost yell to him over the table, both of them fixated on the 20-something that leaned across them to top up Ma's coffee.
“He’s so cute.” The waitress would coo at Bobby, not even sparing his competing older brothers a glance while the kid carved yet another crayon into the tabletop, fingers and chin caked with grease and maple imitation. 
Those moments were the only instance Travis could recall hating one of his own. 
The years came and went. Times changed, but out as far as they were, the routine didn’t. Pocket money and independence turned the spot into a hangout in a pinch. Tourists came through in increasingly modernised cars and wardrobes while their little town — if you could even call it that — drew further and further out of time. Architecture dulled. Classics became white noise. 
Family breakfasts dwindled in adulthood, but Travis still frequented for the 24-hour service that shift-work had forced him to appreciate. It was familiar. Quiet. That same side of the same booth, in the same dingy little diner. It had become an especially common habit for him in recent years to hang around the place after clocking off. Ever since Silas had been on the run, it was a handy spot to eavesdrop on late-night chatter when one had otherwise silence awaiting them back home. If there wasn't some muttered tip to follow up on, there was at least the clatter of plates. Some casual wave. A ‘hey, Sheriff’ — hell, even a drunk to ferry home — or lock-up, behaviour permitting. 
In the present, there's no better reason to be here than you. 
There's you, bearing a welcoming smile, returning to his booth like clockwork while the hours pass in the night to top up his coffee. You, who combats the loneliness and dreariness of this out-of-time place with ill-fitted enthusiasm and daily anecdotes ranging from boring to bizarre. Something about you teems with stubborn, relentless, fascinating life, and when there's nothing else to observe in the room, Travis takes great pleasure in simply existing in your proximity.
He doesn’t speak to you. Not in a familiar sense. Small-talk is a hard habit to break out of when you’d been working here so many years and all he’d grown accustomed to trading for your words were unamused hums and taciturn, one-word responses. He likes to think that despite the lack of chatter, however, your short interactions had stacked enough familiarity over all this time to transcend conversation. Even if he wouldn't dare to ever address you by your first name, Travis likes to think you enjoy having him around.
At least, that’s what he tells himself every time you linger at his table, slowing the stream of coffee from the pot to enquire about his day and he chokes out a curt reply that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. It’s what he tells himself when he barely returns your smiles, far too concerned with family business, work, and nerves to regard you until it’s too late. When you’re already tending to another patron or shuffling menus or cleaning tables. Gaze captured by your retreating form only when the pressure of your attention is no longer on him. 
Existing in your proximity is doable. Comfortable. Talking to you, on the other hand; he can't think of anything more terrifying.
Tonight — however —  is a little different.
It’s almost sundown when Travis is finishing up. Bobby and his parents are waiting on him to prep for tonight’s hunt. Chris and the kids are most likely sedated and chained up by now. 
You’re tugging the ties of your apron as you approach, signalling the end of your shift, and his heart sinks in relief at the prospect that you’ll be home instead of here for the full moon. Unfortunately for the both of you, that weight shifting off his shoulders looks a whole lot more like annoyance on him. 
Despite his refusal to match your energy, you seem to hold out. “You need a top-up before I head out for the night, Sheriff?” You ask, beaming bright enough that he can barely stand to meet your eye until you’re finally faltering.
Travis’s jaw rolls. Words jam on his tongue. Silence. At least until he averts his gaze to the setting sun out the window and stands from his seat. 
“Making sure you’re the one getting the tip, huh?” He grunts. A breath leaves you. Polite laughter. He’s almost dizzy at the sound. “I’m headed out, too. I’ll, uh— I’ll walk you out.” 
He overtakes you on the way to the door, maybe a little too briskly while you stop to grab your things from behind the counter. It feels almost like it could've been an evasion if he willed it, but you're catching up as he slows to escort you out. His intention is to be gentlemanly; commit to the absolute bare minimum of courtesy — maybe even catch a whiff of whatever shampoo you use while you're close enough.
Fuck his life that a group of 5 just so happens to walk through the door as soon as he opens it, ignoring the two of you completely on their way past. Travis's molars grind. Whatever. Maybe that albino shit might scare some manners into them if they stay out too late.
His failed attempt has him distracted enough that he forgets his intention completely and walks outside first, only just remembering to hold the fucking thing for you once you’re already outside. 
The summer air offers no reprieve from the heat crawling up the back of his neck while you follow him down the steps, gaze flickering at him in his periphery. It's a battle not to turn his back to you when he slows to a stop in the parking lot — to just pretend you don't exist for a few seconds and claw back a little dignity.
Jesus fucking Christ, he hates himself. 
He rifles through his wallet for whatever note seems appropriately sizeable enough to communicate a job well done without seeming like he’s playing favourites among the staff, and half-expects you to disappear the moment the cash is in your hand. 
You do not. 
“Thanks." You mutter, shrugging a shoulder. The act of giving you money while you're not in uniform almost feels dirty. He's on the verge of asking for it back before the two of you continue on your way. "You, uh, you walking me to my car?"
The curious tilt of your head has Travis frowning. Then, he realises he’s been meeting your stride in the opposite direction of his patrol car.
“Is there a problem?"
"No, you're welcome to." There's amusement in your tone. "Safest 30 steps I'll ever take."
"Sure."
Christ, why couldn’t he have been born with a little of Chris’s charisma? Why does walking you across a parking lot have to be so painful? 
“You headed back to the station tonight?"
“Nope.” Fuck. Elaborate, dumbass. “I’m — Out. Off. For the night.”
In the corner of his eye, your gaze wanders elsewhere. The prickling in the back of his neck eases. 
“Got any plans?”
“Family business.” 
“Which one?”
That almost makes him chuckle. “The hunting one.”
It wasn’t strictly a lie. 
“Anything after?” You ask.
“All-nighter. Bastard we’ve been after’s migrated back up North from the sounds of it."
“Sounds pretty elusive."
“You don’t know the half of it.” The corners of Travis’s mouth tug. 
For just a moment, while you’re rounding the driver's side of your car and the two of you slow to a stop, he’s finally able to trade a friendly expression with you.  
Silence stretches between you for a moment, a little more comfortable now that you seem to be the one searching for your words. With the tables turned, watching your gaze flicker to meet his — then away — then back again — he decides it’s…cute, when you do it.
That smile blooms across your face once more, now trained firmly on him.
“Maybe I’d like to.”
A pit forms in Travis’s stomach. Blood drains from his face. He sobers in an instant. Your words echo through his thoughts, sharpening with mounting anxiety. What exactly were you trying to say? You were interested in hunting?
The smile still lingers on you, and what felt like amusement moments ago has suddenly warped into something harsh and mocking. Did you know what they were hunting? Were you probing him for information? 
“What makes my time any of your business?” He snaps, ignoring a pang of guilt at such a confrontation. Perhaps he was being too paranoid. Perhaps you were none the wiser. Just curious. Less sense than caution. He made an effort to ease up at the sight of your brow furrowing. “I think it’s wiser that you get in your car and go drive home.”
You’re pulling the door open. Not quite able to slip into the drivers seat when Travis’s palm presses into the chassis, using whatever presence he could just to make sure you were listening. “Maybe another night, then.”
Another night?
Anxiety turns to panic.
“Don’t let me catch you out here after dark." He insists, voice hardening. "You’ve got no idea what you’re doing.”
“I meant…—“
“I don’t care what you meant. I’m telling you to drop whatever it is you’re hoping to get out of this. No ‘another night’.” Travis grinds out. “Go home. Do I make myself clear?”
The ensuing pause is dreadful.
“Yeah.” Eventually cuts from between your teeth. Your eyes flash disdain at his order. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.” 
Travis notices far too late how close you’ve become until you slip out of his shadow. Maple scent disappears with your presence as you get into your car, avoiding his gaze now. His hand still rests against the chassis, preventing you from leaving. He leans down. 
He needs to be certain you’re hearing him. He needs to know you’ll be alive in the morning. 
It’d be overstepping to offer his number. Let you know you can call on him for help outside work hours. He'd be there in a heartbeat if you asked, if not for the implications.
“I’m flagging your licence plate.” Is all he can offer in lieu of a assurance. “I see your car anywhere between here and my family’s home? May god help you.”
The mortification is clear enough to have him content. You’re not pleased to say the least, but his point is well and truly across. It's fine; it's better this way. There's safety in distance, and he can always compensate with a more generous tip tomorrow.
Travis pushes the door closed the rest of the way, molars grinding at the empty smile that broadens on you. 
He’s upset you. He knows it, but he can’t be faulted for steering you clear of the hunt. For keeping his family safe.
Maybe another night, then. That phrase sticks out to him while you start the car and back out of your space. He’d have to keep a closer watch on you if you planned on challenging his warning more than once. Another night, then. You'd never shown an interest in hunting. Why would you do such a thing, if not out of nosiness? Malicious curiosity? Spite, even. It made less sense the more he replayed it. What was that if not an invitation to–
...
An invitation.
Oh. Oh, no.
Travis goes rigid, watching your car pull out of the lot. Hands frozen on his hips. Gawking.
Had he not been on display to the entirety of the diner, he might’ve thrown something. Started kicking the tyres of his patrol car. 
You were making a fucking pass at him. 
Shit. Shit! 
You’d shown an interest in him. In him. In being with him. Off-duty, outside work hours. At night. Recreationally. And he’d just torn you a new one for it. 
Fucking piece of shit. Fucking loser. Over and over while he trudges back to his own vehicle, the conversation flickers through his thoughts. How many more ins had you given him prior to today? How many fucking chances?
The sun's half way past the horizon. He doesn't have time to reflect. He has to table this for now. As much as the realisation claws at his insides, he has to focus on the hunt.
Maybe if he kills that kid tonight, he can look forward to making amends.
That's the final reflection he allows himself before shoving the though to the back of his psyche, where it can't bother him.
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It does bother him, as it turns out. 
It haunts him through the night while he searches for Silas in the undergrowth. The White Wolf hasn't made an appearance tonight and the trail is cold, and while his failure is spelled out by undisturbed frogs and crickets chirping late into the night, the Sheriff is almost relieved. The incident outside the diner and the replaying memory of it deafens him to the ambience. If he's being stalked by the werewolf, he's far too distracted to know it.
Finally, the sun rises, and Travis is once again out of time. Another month to add to the record of the family curse. Another month of Ma's ire and Pa's hard-won, past-his-prime lectures. Chris and the kids didn't deserve this. Especially the kids. 
He has to get back to the station in a few hours. Pretend he hasn’t been wandering the woods all fucking night. He has to clean off. Decompress. Take just a little time to reflect on what he’d said to you — on how the fuck he could hope to set the record straight when the mere knowledge that he’d held your interest was trying his stomach in knots. 
If he couldn’t work up the spine to speak to you before, he's got no hope in hell of approaching you now. 
The moment he’s back in his flat, Travis bee-lines for the bathroom, ignoring hunger and exhaustion and the temptation to retrieve the 6-pack from the fridge along the way. The blood he’s worn to cover his scent on the hunt isn’t so obvious against the black of his uniform, but it acts almost like a sponge, soaking fresh stains over his skin, incriminating him in the light. 
He doesn’t bother to let the water run hot before he steps into the shower fully clothed, barring his shoes. The half-minute of icy spray does well to remove whatever rusted pigment his clothes might gain once dry. Momentarily, the chill of the water is enough of a shock to his system that he stops mulling over what happened in the parking lot. 
It doesn’t last. The self-loathing seeps back in right while the water pooling around the drain runs copper and crimson. Another night of fuck ups. Another month of cursed loved ones and the overtime it took to keep them safe. Some small part of him protests; maybe they’re asking too much of him — maybe it isn’t fair that it all falls on his shoulders. With Bobby’s disabilities and his parents’ ages, though, who else can keep everyone safe?
He’s ashamed of himself for such a sentiment. And yet —
He feels just as cursed.
To be free of the favours and the corruption and the secrecy — the fucking paranoia that settles over every conversation that someone might know, or find out. He fucking wishes he could spend a moment in that diner with a clear enough head, just enough to be capable of holding a conversation with you.
Maybe he's shifting the blame too much. This has been going on so long that he can't be sure if he was terrified of you before Silas came to the county. It's possible that even if the Harum Scarum hadn't rolled into town, and there'd been no fire, and no witches, and no werewolves — he'd still be sitting in that little booth.
The water begins to warm, and Travis reluctantly disrobes in the cubicle, unbuttoning and peeling off his drenched uniform. Shame hits from a new angle once his trousers are discarded. He’s half hard in his periphery. A frequent state he’s left in while you’re on his mind. While he’s at his booth, thanking his lucky stars to be covered by the table while you wipe down tables, bent at the hip, reaching for too high glasses, body stretching, waist cinched by an apron perpetually dusted with coffee grounds and sugar. While he’s seated at his desk in a silent police department, combing social media for your image despite your unanswered friend request and the access that just fucking accepting would give him and fuck—
He blew you off. 
One fucking window of opportunity left wide open to reciprocate a now obvious flirtation, and he’d spent it trying to intimidate you instead. 
God, he's repulsed by himself. Even in the wake of the hurt and the gore, he's still suffering an erection. Even when his hands have scrubbed the mask of blood off his face and the smell of rotting flesh is all but washed away, he's still left in disgust.
What if he’d thrown caution to the wind and allowed you to come along tonight? It was quiet. You'd have survived. He'd have had you trudging through the brush, armed to the teeth. Would you still have been interested after that? Would you have pitied him, or laughed at him for his monthly routine of dousing himself in werewolf’s blood, and failing to track a freak show attraction who couldn’t even speak?
On the other hand, what if he’d taken this one night off? Had the common sense to tell you 'tomorrow night, I’m available' ? 
Why were you drawn to him in the first place? Did you feel sorry for him in that empty station, in his empty patrol car, in his empty flat? Was it the uniform you liked? Or had his hope that your mutual little routine of small talk affect you as well?
Maybe, somehow, you took him at face value and liked what you saw. 
Travis stiffens at the thought. A twitch from below beckons his attention once more. He presses a forearm against the cubicle wall, shifting his weight, contemplating. 
Then, he gives in. Takes himself gingerly in-hand and basks in the relief of touch, thoughts clearing, envisioning the potential your interest might have had before he ruined it. 
Do you find him attractive? Do you steal your own furtive glances when he isn't taking his own, ignoring the thinning hairline and the way his ears stuck out — or do you like that, too? 
Heat licks up through his spine with an experimental pump. Body reacting emphatically to what he's testing. 
Travis slackens with a sigh as the tension in his shoulders lessens. Nerve's spark elsewhere now, begging to keep his attention. His forehead comes to rest against the tile beside his wrist, and swallowing back a hesitation, he builds into a rhythm. 
Did you want him to fuck you? Did you think about that at all before today? He ventures to hope you’re kind enough not to mind the only experience he has to show for himself is a handful of one night stands dotted few and far between. You’d be patient, and he’d make it up to you. He’s nothing if not dedicated. He’s all too happy to learn. 
A scene he's imagined before takes shape on the backs of his eyelids. If you’d let him, he’d take you in your workplace. Late hours of a weeknight. Unlikely that anyone should enter, but always a risk that you could be caught. He’d have you against the counter, apron bunched around your waist. Right now, though, he can’t decide which image he prefers. Bending you over the counter-top or having you spread on your back atop one of the tables. Would you let him, anymore, after how he treated you? 
Maybe some fucked-up, fictional version of you might find retribution in sex. Shit, he likes the idea of that. Foregoing verbal apology in favour of physical satisfaction. Something electric buzzes through his nerves, core tightening with a particular throb that simultaneously warns and sings. He's already close, and slowing strokes do little to lessen his momentum.. He has to make the best of the time he has. 
Travis changes the scene. His patrol car. Behind the wheel. Sitting back, helpless beneath you while you rock in his lap. Taking what you need from him. Paying no mind if he’s already finished— overstimulated, trembling, slacks a stained mess from how much of him has spilled out of you. It’s only fair, after how he behaved. He transplants the image into as many scenarios as imagination will allow: his office, his couch, his bed. Arms draped around your rib cage, cheek pressed to your sternum. Feeling you make yourself come around him, over and over, flushed from exertion, not letting up until the score is settled and forgiveness is earned. 
When you’re finally done taking what you’re owed, you give way to sweetness again. Fingers scratching gently through gelled back hair. Lips ghosting over his forehead. Murmuring praises. Telling him how well he did. 
It's the thought of being held by you that brings him undone. 
The surge comes too soon, catching him off guard, choking the air in his lungs. He’s emptying into his fist already, bliss and humiliation dragging him through an orgasm that lasts nearly as long as his performance. Whatever hasn’t been spent on the tile wall coats his knuckles in residual little twitches.
The image of you evaporates, and a nearly inaudible curse slips through Travis's teeth. 
He doesn't want to leave the cubicle. What he wants is to savour the waning warmth. Enjoy what he can of the afterglow before clarity and guilt creep back into his mind.
Even if you did want him, the truth would change that. 
He’d blown you off, but at least you weren’t privy to what he’d done. What he was doing. So long as he kept you at bay, the height of your disappointment would only stem from his refusal.
Fuck. He couldn’t convince himself of that. 
At some point, he’d have to decide whether or not he’d be content to remain in the stasis of that booth, in bitter silence, or clear the air. Admit wrongdoing and hope that you’d find his incompetence charming, so long as he hadn’t completely dashed his chances.
The prospect alone terrifies him.
He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s so fucking tired.
At least there’s a 10 hour stretch of shift work between himself and that confrontation. 
At least there’s still a few minutes of hot water left. 
...
He can work with that.
He's got another round left in him. 
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sinceileftyoublog · 5 months
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Bruce Hornsby Continues on the Trail
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Bruce Hornsby performs at the Pabst Theater in Milwaukee, 10/17/23
BY JORDAN MAINZER
At one point last Tuesday in Milwaukee, in response to one of many moments in the night fans shouted their requests at him, Bruce Hornsby joked, "I love the battle between disparate elements of my audience." Funny enough, I can't think of a statement that better defines the virtuosic pianist and singer-songwriter. That is, what's amazing about Hornsby is not just that he's traversed the worlds of rock, jazz, bluegrass, but that he has diehard fans of each of his endeavors. Go to a Hornsby show--even a solo one like at the Pabst Theater, sans defunct backers The Range or current band The Noisemakers--and you're bound to find both classical music appreciators and Deadheads alike.
In that sense, 1998's Spirit Trail, a storied and purposeful left-turn into modern rock after the jazz-focused Harbor Lights and Hot House, exemplifies Hornsby's multi-pronged approach. On Friday, Hornsby will release a 25th anniversary reissue of the record via Zappo Productions and Thirty Tigers. It contains a remastered version of the record, four "lost" songs from an unfinished record that was meant to be Spirit Trail's follow-up (shelved in favor of the almost piano-less Big Swing Face), and previously unreleased live performances of many of the album's songs. In Milwaukee, venue employees were handing out early CD copies of the reissue, the night a celebration of both Spirit Trail and Hornsby's discography as a whole.
Per usual, audience members requested songs both by shouting them out and via written submission, dropped off on stage prior to the show. As expected, they were all over the place, from Spirit Trail and even Lost Trail tunes to songs he simply refused to play because they were too boring or didn't age well, like "Dreamland" and "The Old Playground". Ever cheeky, at one point, Hornsby asked for requests and responded to the various audible shouts, "I haven't heard what I'm looking for yet." It was clear he wanted to give preference to Spirit Trail. He led off the night with "Preacher in the Ring Pt. I", his jaunty piano playing covering the song's ground in totality. You didn't even miss Sonny Emory's clacking drums from Live Trail, nor the dulcimer from both the studio and live versions of "Shadow Hand". Hornsby's finger exercises were simply a masterclass. He wrote standout track "Sneaking Up on Boo Radley" by learning to play over a left-hand ostinato, appropriating György Ligeti's "Etude 13: The Devil's Staircase", and nailed it live. It was a perfect Spirit Trail song to play without a band. His voice, too, was on point, wailing on the Black Crowes-inspired Lost Trail tune "Living in the Sunshine", doing justice to the studio version that indeed sounds like it could be sandwiched between the Southern rockers' "Remedy" and "Thorn in My Pride".
Yes, Hornsby's reach and influence goes beyond Spirit Trail. "The Show Goes On" has been featured in everything from Ron Howard's Backdraft to The Bear. During the set last Tuesday, he segued "Sidelines"--a duet from 2022's terrific 'Flicted with Vampire Weekend's Ezra Koenig--into his most famous song of all, "The Way It Is", during which he invited set opener/Bon Iver drummer S. Carey out to harmonize. That over the past decade Hornsby has fostered fruitful collaborations with the likes of Justin Vernon and Blake Mills is more evidence that he's as shaped by his contemporaries as his organic musical interests. So put yourself in his shoes in the mid-1990s, and you can hear his response to the sociopolitical and musical landscape of the past decade in many of the songs on Spirit Trail. He's asking himself tough questions about his own Southern heritage, challenging institutional racism on songs like "See the Same Way". The strummed mandolin of "Preacher in the Ring Pt. II" recalls Steve Earle's "Copperhead Road", "Resting Place" and "Pete & Manny" the radio-friendly heartland rock of Mellencamp and Petty. Yet, Hornsby's also dipping his toes in the worlds of electronica and hip hop, songs like the shuffling "Line in the Dust" written on a synth bed and with a drum machine beat like much of the second disc of Spirit Trail. And of course, the goofily titled "Sunflower Cat (Some Dour Cat) (Down With That)" is built around a sample of Jerry Garcia's riff on "China Cat Sunflower", as Hornsby was trying to explain the appeal of the Grateful Dead to producer Mike Mangini, a hip hop head. Mangini was so taken aback by the former band member's performance that he wrote a groove around the riff.
On fan favorite piano ballad and Spirit Trail highlight "Fortunate Son", Hornsby sings, "I've stared down the devil and had to look away." The song is ostensibly written from the point of view of a wheelchair-bound military veteran, lucky to be alive but maligning society's penchant to ascribe sacrificial glory to a life of physical limitations. I've always heard it, though, as the general antithesis to tough guy nihilism, whether action heroes or strong and silent singer-songwriters. Hornsby is the ultimate reflector, yet not quite ready to face mortality like many of the characters in his songs. After last Tuesday and 25 years of Spirit Trail, it certainly does seem like he's only just getting started.
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evergreenwadsworth · 3 years
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Everybody go and listen to Steve Earle's 'Copperhead Road'. It's just a great fucking tune and it'll worm its way into your head.
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odinsson2021 · 3 years
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Love it!
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mj-spooks · 4 years
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Can Elliot dance? If so, what kind? Is he a classical ballroom dancer? Is he a person who uses martial arts on a dance floor? Can i make fun of him for square dancing yet? And it wouldn't be fair if i didn't include everybody else on the crew, but can Parker do anything other than a robot?
Eliot can definitely dance. He probably knows a little bit of everything, except the really super technical stuff like ballet and break-dancing. But like, if you wanna do a salsa or waltz, he’s totally your guy. He also probably knows some capoeira (which I apparently somehow spelled correctly?!??!?) and dance fighting is totally A Thing He Does.
Also, of course he can square dance. And line dance. He is out there in the world doing Copperhead Road as we speak.
I bet Parker could probably dance really well if she let herself, she’s got a dancer’s physique. That said, she’s way too self-conscious and probably spends the whole time thinking too much so it makes it look really awkward.
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opspro2005 · 4 years
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Copperhead Road (Live)
Awesome version of a Steve Earle Classic...
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myimaginaryradio · 11 months
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Copperhead Road - Steve Earle - 1988
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gothamincarnate · 5 years
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“This sounds like a dirge.” Lex stared at the shimmering cowboy boot disco ball above and sighed. Clark was next to him, smirking like a cat in the cream. A dozen pairs of various styles and ages of cowboy boots, broken up by Clark's treaded work boots and Lex's too-shiny patent leathers.
The music might have well have been a dirge for Lex's last shred of self-respect. Line dancing-- if only Lionel could see him now.
Clark just shook his head in response, laughing. The music became much more classically country, some stringed thing that Lex couldn't place. “We just stand here?” Lex asked, feeling a little awkward at the anticipation everyone else in line was feeling. Clark nodded, thumbs in his belt buckle like everyone else. Lex, lacking a dinner-plate of his own, decided to just keep his hands at his sides and preserve a little of his dignity.
“Alright, now.” All at once, a loud snap of boots on wood as everyone started the dance. Lex got hold of the clapping first, then stared at Clark in bewilderment. “Here, like this.” Clark heeled his boots a few times, then crossed one heel over the other ankle and back. Another loud snap as everyone rocked on their feet and turned clockwise.
Across the way, a grey-haired old cowboy-grandpa type was teaching his granddaughter to two-step while a teenaged redneck was trying to teach a very patient date how to enjoy such a strange little ritual as a group dance. A young man walked up to an adult who was struggling but trying his best, and broke down the steps for him. There wasn't some hierarchy here, everyone was learning from everyone regardless of age or status.
It brought to mind that scene on the Titanic: the rich swirling away in fancy dress and couple dances. Isolated and restrained, stiff and memorized. The poor below deck were hooting and hollering and dancing as a whole unit. But despite the division, Lex still didn't feel as if he didn't fit in here. Sure, there were odd looks and some laughing at his expense, but just the same there were faceless strangers in the smoky bar cheering him on by name. No doubt some factory workers excited to see their boss try to dance.
The singing started, barely audible from the worn speakers. Lex commented, and Clark smirked, started singing it for him in a gravely, dramatic fashion. (Clark was many things: a country singer was not one of them)
“Ya hardly ever saw granddaddy down here. They only come to town 'bout twice a year. Buy a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line. Everybody knew that he made moonshine.”
Of course the song was about moonshine.
“Headed up the holler with everything he had. Fore my time, well I've been told: Ya never come back from Copperhead Road!” The last verse was drowned out by everyone else in the room shouting out the bridge in various drunken slurs and cheers.
That classically Southern twang that Clark would get when he was excited about something. It certainty didn't improve his singing, but it made it more  fun to listen to, to hear Clark let loose. Clark's body relaxed into the rhythm as well. Lean and long, leaned back as he danced.  He was practically flinging his whole body into the stomps and clicks of his boots. This, more than the city or some remnants of Krypton, was his community and home.
The second verse began-- a whole group stomping and clapping. It was nothing like learning to dance in formal classes with barres and self-critical reflections everywhere. There were no old women with tired faces and papery hands lecturing him to straighten his spine. Here, things were taught free of charge and mistakes were part of the fun. (It helped that pretty much everyone was drunk) The form wasn't nearly as important as the flow, moving in sync and letting go.
Then mid verse the song cut out for a moment leaving only a loud chorus of boots and: “FUCK THE ARMY! FUCK THE ARMY!” They draft the white trash first 'round here anyway. The song started up again. The whole bar had just erupted in a small anarchist rally for a few seconds and Lex blinked in shock as Clark joined in too. He laughed, not breaking the dance as he explained. “Moonshiners were told to join the army or else go to jail.”
The dance continued.
Less a ritual, more a celebration. Clark whooped as Lex finally got the rhythm down and a few others in line clapped for him-- embarrassing as it was strangely encouraging, to get encouragement from strangers. He felt himself loosen up a bit more. Fall into Clark's world some more.
The song picked up speed, the whole unit stomping their feet. Lex was out of breath, not from exhaustion but from wearing himself out laughing and whooping with the rest. Clark was watching him, smile bright in the dim dive bar. Lex followed suit, smiling and clapping in time. Here he wasn't Lex Luthor. He was just some newcomer learning to line dance. (and doing a damn good job of it, by his own limited account)
The music was a little trancelike, the steady rhythm and the sync of boots stomping. It was this strange sense of unity and isolation all at once. Lost in the sway with everyone else, but contributing to the general mood. As the song picked up, a few who were lingering on the edges of the dance floor finally made their way onto the floor and the line spread a bit to make room for them.
A very drunk man attempted to freestyle during an instrumental and tripped. A few others ran to help him, just as the song ended. There was laughter and some boots tapping even as the strange dirge-like sound died down.
And then it was over, the crowd dispersing and chatting as a non-line dancing song played, something about watermelon that Clark was half moving his feet to as he spoke with Lex. They leaned against the banister at the edge of the dance floor, taking a break as the song played.
“Not so bad, was it?”
“I heard a few familiar voices cheering me on. No doubt my reputation as a CEO is in the tank.”
“It's not every day you get to see your boss boot-scoot.” Clark laughed and shouldered Lex. Lex shoved back gently.
“Boot scoot?” Lex asked, and Clark scuffed his boots on the floor to illustrate.
An elderly man dropped to his knees and started crawling on the floor and Lex looked on in horror while Clark sighed in a mix of humor and embarrassment. “That's Dan, he gets really into it. Song's called Watermelon Crawl-- that's, well, the watermelon crawl.” Lex looked more horrified and Clark held up his hands. “We don't expect you to do anything like that. Hell, I don't. It's just something Dan does. He goes to contests in other parts of Kansas and stuff. Taught me when I was a kid. He gets real into it.”
“Hard to believe the Kents letting you out of their sight as a kid. Much less dancing.”
Clark sipped his drink, watching Dan apparently do his damndest to get stepped on. “Learning how to dance was a great way to control my strength, and if I stepped through the floor a few times it was just 'cause it was old rotten boards.”
“Did you?” Lex raised a brow.
“Step through the floor? Yeah.” He pointed to a patch of old but still visibly newer wood. “Good thing about small towns, I guess. No one asks too many questions unless you’re an outsider.” Lex raised his glass in a small salute to that.
“Unless you're an outsider, then they never trust you.”
Clark bit his cheek. “Small town folk, especially in the country, have always gotten the shit end of the stick from anyone from the big city. It's a little community, then the army or some man trying to mine the land for oil or manure.” He pressed his lips together. “I know you're different, but we've been hurt so many times. It's just hard for everyone.”
“Like your father.”
“Yeah, like Pa.” The song must have been coming to a close, because Clark set his empty glass back down on the table on the other side of the banister. He held out his hand for Lex, inviting him to join in the next song. “Dunno what the next song is, but you up for another round if it’s not too tricky?”
“It was hardly that complicated.” He regretted it just as he spoke, because a twanging guitar and too-nasally voice started up and, ah, this song he did know even without the lyrics audible. “Cotton Eyed Joe, really?”
“It's a valid country song, Lex.” Clark laughed and pulled Lex into the middle of the dance floor where others were forming a series of three clusters. Clark took his hands. “Ok, there’s actually a few different versions but I’ll teach you the one that’s easier.”
“If a bunch of country bumpkins can learn it, I'm sure it can't be that hard.” Lex laughed, then frowned as Clark sighed. Too far with the jokes, okay. “I'm sorry.” He squeezed Clark's shoulder.
“These people are just trying their best, Lex. You know that, you employ a lot of them. The schools round here might suck, but that ain't their fault. Going back to that whole thing with big cities screwing us over. Who do you think draws up the lines and funds the schools in richer areas?” That twang got a bit heavier. “We aren't that stupid, Lex.” The we was deliberate, a reminder that for as Metropolis as Clark was, his roots and his family were still heartland small town.
“Yeah, I get it.” Lex frowed a bit at the reminder, of how much of an outsider he was and how much of small town life he still didn’t understand. The history he just didn’t get and probably wouldn’t.
There were three very different variations of dance going on-- apparently Cotton Eyed Joe had a lot of variations to it. “This looks complicated.” He shrugged and admitted his earlier mistake.
“Cotton Eyed Joe's really popular, there's a lot of variations.” Clarks' smile was back and he linked arms with Lex, showing him how to do the version he'd learned as a kid: three people in a line, dancing back and forth with a series of small hops. The stranger next to Clark passed off his cowboy hat, and Clark smirked and plopped it on Lex's head. A few cheers from some dark corner of the bar where no doubt those same employees were enjoying the sight of the infamously bald Luthor in a white straw Stetson.
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katiebug445 · 5 years
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1-30 because I’m an ass ❤️
Y’all really fuckin want me to die okay. 
1: A song you like with a colour in the titleRed - Taylor Swift 
2: A song you like with a number in the titleFourth of July - Fall Out Boy
3: A song that reminds you of summertimeHot Times - Louden Swain 
4: A song that reminds you of someone you would rather forget aboutDowntown Letdown - Louden Swain 
5: A song that needs to be played LOUDRenegade - STYX
6: A song that makes you want to danceDancing’s Not a Crime - Panic! at the Disco 
7: A song to drive toTake it Easy - The Eagles 
8: A song about drugs or alcoholCopperhead Road - Steve Earle (BECAUSE RICHARD. SPEIGHT. JR. HOLY DAMN!)
9: A song that makes you happySugar, We’re Goin’ Down Swingin’ - Fall Out Boy 
10: A song that makes you sadCan’t Help Falling in Love - Elvis Presley (DESTIEL SHIPPERS, WHERE YOU AT)
11: A song that you never get tired ofStill Into You - Paramore 
12: A song from your preteen yearsYear 3000 - Jonas Brothers 
13: One of your favorite 80’s songsAFRICABYTOTO
14: A song that you would love played at your weddingThe Only Exception - Sam Yung (it’s a piano cover oooh my god i love it) 
15: A song that is a cover by another artistEverybody Wants to Rule the World - Ninja Sex Party 
16: One of your favorite classical songsMoonlight Sonata - Beethoven (because Hamtaro) 
17: A song that would sing a duet with on karaokeSHUT UP AND DANCE WITH ME - WALK THE MOON (I HAVE DONE THIS AS A DUET AT KARAOKE AND IT WAS THE BEES KNEES)
18: A song from the year that you were bornRoll to Me - Del Amitri
19: A song that makes you think about lifeCrystal Ball - P!nk 
20: A song that has many meanings to youLandslide - Fleetwood Mac 
21: A favorite song with a person’s name in the titleDanny Don’t You Know - Ninja Sex Party 
22: A song that moves you forwardLast Hope - Paramore 
23: A song that you think everybody should listen toRed Swan - Yoshiki feat. HYDE (FIGHT. ME. EVERYONE) 
24: A song by a band you wish were still togetherWelcome to the Black Parade - My Chemical Romance 
25: A song by an artist no longer livingPurple Rain - Prince 
26: A song that makes you want to fall in loveA Thousand Years - Christina Perri 
27: A song that breaks your heartCleopatra - The Lumineers 
28: A song by an artist with a voice that you loveMemories - Panic! at the Disco 
29: A song that you remember from your childhoodThis I Promise You - NSYNC 
30: A song that reminds you of yourselfLike the Heart Goes - Louden Swain 
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evergreenwadsworth · 3 years
Audio
I’ve sure I’ve said this before but it bears repeating - go and listen to Copperhead Road.
Steve Earle - utterly brilliant. It’s anti-everything and I love it. Put it on loud and enjoy the bagpipes.
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Watch "Steve Earle - Copperhead Road (Official Video)" on YouTube
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"Steve Earle - Copperhead Road (Official Video)." Classics: on "YouTube.", Merci.
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satanstruemistress · 6 years
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BoB Modern Music Taste Headcanons bc fight me
(I know. Lots of metal/rock, but tbh I don’t know a Hell of a lot outside of rock. I know I’m forgetting people)
•Bill - The Heaviest Of Them All™ Artists: Amon Amarth, Bloodsimple, Havok, Trivium. All the old classic metal like Maiden, Metallica, Pantera. Super weird and obscure shit too, like Powerwolf or Cattle Decapitation when he’s trying to freak people out. Also just whatever is on today’s rock radio when he’s with Babe.
•Babe - Disturbed, A7X, Godsmack, Halestorm, HellYeah, Metallica. Bill got him into heavy stuff when they were younger, but he never got too into the screaming stuff. Mostly radio metal. Also likes Disney music. Fight him.
•Joe Toye - Another Heavy Boi™. Pantera is his shit. Indestructible by Disturbed and anything by Sabaton is for when he works out. We Shall Destroy by Amon Amarth before a fight (I dunno, they said he was a beast so I kinda headcanon he’s some sort of semi-pro boxer/cage fighter).
•Frank Perconte - He’ll take this secret to the grave, but he loves showtunes. And rock, and pop, really whatever comes on the radio.
•Buck Compton - Sporty dude is sporty. He mostly listens to music when he works out, so as long as it’s got a good beat, it can go on his playlist. (Metallica, Meghan Trainor, Ice Cube, Luke Bryan, whatever)
•Richard Winters - When concentrating, he listens to classical. When not, he likes really chill sort of stuff. Like ‘Tennessee Whiskey’ by Chris Stapleton, 'Alive’ by Pearl Jam, 'Simple Man’ by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Steve Miller Band. CCR. Anything relaxing. Aloe Blacc is a favorite. 'I’ll Follow You’ by Shinedown was played at his and Nix’s wedding
•Nix - Whatever Dick is listening to. When he was younger, he liked to blast the most obnoxiously vulgar stuff he could find at his dad. He doesn’t play it much anymore but he’s still got a soft spot for Slipknot’s 'Custer’ and 'The Heretic Anthem’.
•Joe Liebgott - Black Flag, Green Day, The Kinks, The Ramones, Dead Kennedys, Misfits, The Clash. He is a Punk Motherfucker. Also German metal band Rammstein.
•David Webster - A bit of pop punk, bit of grunge, bit of anything vaguely poetic. If it’s got meaning he’ll listen. He scoffs at meaningless 'fun’ songs. Secretly loves 'Casual Sex’ by My Darkest Days. Also likes Rammstein, thanks Lieb.
•Shifty Powers - My lil country bumpkin boy. Loves country music
•Ron - Zeppelin. AC/DC. Sabbath. ZZ Top Rolling Stones, Skynyrd. When he’s pissed he’ll pull out 5 Minutes Alone by Pantera. He also like’s Carwood’s fun pop stuff. But only Carwood knows so shhh.
•Carwood Lipton - Lots of older pop. Janet Jackson, The Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, New Kids On The Block (😉). He’s a phenomenal singer. He’s kinda shy at the beginning of their relationship so he’d stop singing when Ron got out of bed, so Ron would lie in bed for a while just listening to him sing.
•Eugene Roe - When he has time to listen to anything. he likes stuff like Black Stone Cherry, The Animals, Linkin Park, Soundgarden, The Black Keys, Halestorm. Will jam to Disney with Babe.
•Skinny - The Chili Peppers, The Beatles, Dr Dre, Tupac, Walk The Moon, DNCE. Whatever man, good music is good music.
•Chuck Grant - Has a crush on Maria Brink of In This Moment. Arch Enemy, Otep, Godsmack, My Darkest Days. Anything with attitude.
•Tab - Knows Nirvana’s entire discography by heart. Has seen Foo Fighters like eighteen times.
•Bull Randleman - Hank Jr, Black Stone Cherry, CCR, Allman Brothers, Chris Stapleton, Alabama, Eric Church, Eagles. Southern boy like southern rock and country.
•Johnny Martin - 'Bull, get that twang away from me.’ Put it on a rock station. He likes what they’re playing. Queen is his favorite band.
•Skip Muck - Copperhead Road by Steve Earle is his favorite. But honestly, he’s not picky. Anything remotely amusing.
•Alex Penkala - The more ridiculous the better. Steel Panther comes to mind. Ariana Grande. JoBros.
•Harry Welsh - Dropkick Murphys. U2. Shinedown. Phil Collins. Elton John. GNR bc gotta support your fellow gingers. Kitty had a massive crush on Axl for the longest time.
•Pat Christenson - (Fassy is a metalhead irl sooo) Slayer’s Reign In Blood album is his religion.
•Popeye Wynn - My lil hillbilly with that accent. Outlaw Country/Southern Rock.
•Don Malarkey - Prog rock. Cheesy country. Comedy albums. Cotton Eyed Joe is his ringtone. Him, Skip, and Alex have both Pitch Perfect soundtracks memorized.
•George Luz - Anything. Literally anything. His ringtone for Buck is 'Straight Outta Compton’. He has songs he has no idea how to pronounce. 'What language is that, George?’ 'I do not know but it’s catchy.’ Selena is the Love Of His Life, sorry boys. 1D and their subsequent solo careers Cheetah Girls? Yep. Cannibal Corpse? Check. Weird Tibetan Monks Chanting? ✔️
George likes anything that catches his attention.
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1coyoteshaman3 · 4 years
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"Steve Earle - Copperhead Road" (Classic Rock Songs):
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broadswordandpistol · 7 years
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tagged by @sinnerswake​
an alphabetical questionnaire for the mun! repost and replace answers with yours. tag people!
a - age: 42 b - biggest fear: needles and loneliness c - current time: 4:16 PM as of writing d - drink you last had: green tea e - every day starts with: snuggles and a morning walk f - favorite song: at the moment (and only at the moment) Copperhead Road g - ghosts, are they real: Undecided, but have never met one h - hometown: San Diego, California i - in love with: the husband, the friends, the RP, the cosplay j - jealous of: people doing the things I want to do but don’t have the time for because I have to do dumb stuff like sleep. k - killed someone: accidentally crushed a mouse once, under a suitcase. didn’t mean to, it scared me and I dropped the suitcase. l - last time you cried:  the other day. gonna pin that one on hangry and dieting. n - number of siblings: one o - one wish: that life improves for a bunch of my friends who need real support right now. I can only do so much, being far away on the interwebs p - person you last called/texted: @thecatstookovermybrain q - questions you’re always asked: ”what’s in this?” I uh. Cook a lot. r - reasons to smile: friends, writing, making stuff, tasty foods~ there are tons of reasons to smile s - song last sang: Wild Wild West, Escape Club. Don’t judge me. (Video is classic 80s and really bad, but the song is good.) t - time you woke up: 6am u - underwear color: black v - vacation destination: the bucket list includes Japan, Italy, and Australia, but I love rambling the States, too, and I’m hyped for Maple Gel in Canada next year. w - worst habit: judging myself against others x - x-rays you’ve had: mostly dental, plus the usual maintenance stuff when you get to be my age. y - your favorite food: I like almost everything. Right now I’m crazy about poki bowls. Mmm. All the deliciousness of sushi but more. z - zodiac sign: cancer
tagging: anyone who needs a Munday meme!
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