Something about living in the small-town South fuels eccentricity, secrecy, superstition, and creativity. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the isolation. Maybe it’s the leftover miasma of being a conquered, misunderstood people within one’s own country.
But those who’ve lived it recognize it, and write it, and sing about it in low, mournful sounds, or frantic chords. They evoke emotion from a bow drawn slowly across taut strings or fingers plucking at instruments in such a frenzied pace as to seem a physical impossibility. It’s a place where words have power, and words set to music have more power. Life plays out with a soundtrack.