It’s found where the distance between saint and sinner is no further than the space between frets, where backsliders and Baptists sit together, listening to steel and strings, wood and wire that sounds like angels dancing on the rim of a Mason jar. It’s wound around the country lyrics of a story song, of folks leaving town on a ghost train or the wings of a dove. And, it lives in the wail of the bastard child called rock and roll, whose family tree branches into juke joints and smoke-filled bars, its roots prying up the floorboards of front porches and barn dances.
The music that lives in Moses Jones, either by birth or divine guidance, is as good as it is varied. The sound comes from the instruments, but the music comes from the souls of the boys pulling the strings. It rolls down the mountains and through the hills and takes hold before the soil turns to sand, remaining on the solid ground it knows well. Let others shag on boardwalks. We pound boots on quartz and clay, nodding our heads in time and agreement.