On the outskirts of the City of Night, out where the wind hardly disturbs the ink and obsidian, a rundown little watering hole offers the only meager illumination available. To call it a building would be an embellishment: some permanent structure houses a kitchen and some storage, but the rest of the establishment consists of a corrugated tin roof held up by rusted poles, with three sides open to the silence that surrounds. The floor is dirt and ash, the furniture is scavenged. A wooden sign hangs from one of the poles, crooked and still: VICTUALS
A trio of shadows is clustered around a worm-eaten oak table that sits on the perimeter, perched on the border of dim light and dark. Their concentration is set on the matter at hand, their demeanor demonstrating a well tempered mettle that only barely betrays their discomfort at having their backs to the open nothing. The game is what is important: the stakes are different for every shade around the table, but they are all high. The Dealer, the only smiling figure present, shuffles minor arcana and distributes them accordingly.
The players, the fools, ante up.
This one was never meant for this. Circumstance and fate played them for a fool in life, led them down a path that started with ease and ended with pain and paranoia. Piece by piece, they traded every good thing they had for a pill or a smoke or any drink that was offered. For a time, it silenced the hurt that lingered around and always spoke up when things got quiet. Now they have turned down so many dark roads that they’ve ended up here, in a place that knows no trust or remorse. All they want is to return to that long distant foreign country where they could look into another’s eyes and see something like compassion. For that, they’re willing to risk all of what little they’ve managed to hang on to.
From the major arcana, the flop is dealt: The Hanged Man, an inverted Star, an upside-down Chariot.
This one embraced the shadow in their life, drizzling poison across every person they met and every place they went. The cycle they were caught in repeats itself here in the dark. They thrive in the City of Betrayal, finding something like comfort in the corrupted company they keep. The nature of the City rejects anything like joy and stability. A deal is struck and the deal goes wrong: circumstances of fortune are flipped and a retreat is made. Out here to the wilds, to the wastes, just to lick some wounds and plot a return. Maybe earn a little extra fortune on a gamble. They think they’ll come out on top, but they can’t, not here. All they have here is the lit fuse of time, and they have no idea how short that is.
The turn follows: The Magician standing on his head.
This one, a former private wealth manager who excelled at hiding fortunes away from official eyes, has grander ambitions than the rest. They endeavor to one day escape this barren landscape entirely, to perhaps seep out through a crack in this world and be somewhere different. They will earn whatever currency exists here, network their way out of whatever this is and into whatever is next. To make that border crossing without a guide and a soul of merit is a very difficult task, and they will find neither of those here. They hold a hollow hope and chase any lead they can.
The river finishes the round: Judgement lands on the table.
Pockets are flipped. Five aces, three of them swords, land on the table. Hands are filled with thunder, and the thunder echoes for miles around the landscape. The shades fall to the floor and dissipate, out into the nothing. Over time, they may remember themselves and crawl back, repeating the scene in the vain hope that the outcome will change, every time losing a bit more until they join the ink and obsidian forever.
The Dealer gathers the chips, still grinning its long toothed grin. It gazes out into the night at the lights of the city, sparkling like diamond dust on black velvet. More shadows will come, disperse, return again and again, lured by the promise of being something else, anything other than what they have chosen to become.
The maps are all burnt. The roads are all ash. There are no torches to light the way. This country is murder and there is nothing that it loves.
Tasting Notes
Welcome to Murder Country.
I honestly didn’t set out to do this. I had been building a chicken coop and listening to old country music and wanted to put some of it into a playlist. Then I was kind of curious if I actually liked any new country music and after a while I realized that half of the playlist was funny, charming, and nostalgic and the other half was casting a shadow over my soul and might be illegal in a few states. So I split the two: one for driving down a dusty road, and one for betraying and being betrayed. Turns out I guess I like some new country music but what really thrills me are the old tales told by talented storytellers.
So here is a collection of dark country, murder ballads, “southern gothic”, questionable decisions, bad advice, nightmare warnings, deals with the devil, and death knells. It’s the perfect accompaniment for rampaging through the countryside, exacting revenge against all who have wronged you, and being left for dead by the side of a road that only leads to a ghost town.
A couple of highlights:
I found Justin Townes Earle a little too late. He’s new to me and everything I’ve heard just carries this weight to it that’s just a little too heavy.
Tex Ritter’s “Sam Hall” has a deep, deep history, as does Poor Ellen Smith.
I’m chuffed that I found two songs about cursed holes.
Nick Cave definitely writes country songs. I’ll die on that hill.
Gimme A Ride to Heaven, Boy is now probably one of my favorite songs of all time.
Also, I’m gobsmacked at the art produced for this one by my talented daughter. I’ll have to make do with other means now that school has started back up but she really outdid her self with my request for “the ace of spades, but it’s a tarot card.”
Thanks for joining on this one. We’re leaving Murder Country for now, off to somewhere and something completely different.