Here's a lyric video for the second song on our album: Lucky in Kentucky. EverettandMarcy, David Marley, Ashley Smith, and I have had a ton of fun playing and singing this one together. Dave plays a killer piano solo about 3/4 of the way through and Everett made up and plays a bass line that really brings a great energy to the song.

My mom always likes to know what a song is "about" so I'm going to try to say something about that here.

The song starts out with a grinning critique of a new dynamic that's occurring where people who wouldn't know a coal mine from Kohl's decided it was cool to be from Kentucky. But only a small little part of Kentucky. And not the main part, which is just good, normal people who shop for their groceries, go to the mall for school clothes, and buy new boots when theirs get worn out. Those parts don't get much attention.

It's kind of a curious thing to watch this Eastern Kentucky stereotype that's taking hold (maybe it has been for years) where people assume everyone spends their day passing around a meth pipe in between banjo licks somewhere deep in a coal mine. When I was there we learned about Shakespeare in school and ordered shoes from the Eastbay catalog.

The contradictory part is that I can't help but be proud of the whole thing. I understand it, because, like many cultures, the gritty part of Kentucky is just a more interesting topic for books, songs, TV shows, movies, etc. And because of that, people enjoy dressing up in costumes and pretending that's who they actually are. So I'm kind of saying, hey, I'm glad you're getting some attention with this Kentucky-act. I like it. I love it. I want some more of it.

The second part of the song gives an example of two types of people. The first just happens to have been a well-known Kentucky politician. The second is a basketball coach who, depending on the score, goes from being the most criticized man in the world to the most celebrated man in the world. Neither feeling lasts very long.

The third part of the song is about this: When I was a kid, the men in my church would always stand in the back and talk in between Sunday school and the main service. Actually, they still do that but I'm talking now about how they did it back then. I used to stand back there with them and listen. Frequent topics were things like whether or not they would've called timeout, cars they previously owned, the price of things now compared to what it used to be, things they very nearly bought, what was broke and how they fixed it, what they never should’ve sold, where they went and the route they took, and maybe some politics. Sometimes they'd ask me if I had a girlfriend at school and I'd turn red and say nah.

But one topic I used to wonder about a lot came from a man who never missed a Sunday. He could pick a guitar and banjo, sang in the old style, and referred to God as Thee and Thou in his prayers. He had tough hands and a gentle handshake. He took pride in the work he did during the week and sometimes he'd talk about it. He was a farmer, a bus driver, a concrete man, a truck driver, a Bookmobile driver, equipment operator, and a lot of other things through the years. He grew vegetables and a tobacco crop, and he could hit a softball over the gym at camp. But sometimes he'd predict things that I didn't think would turn out to be true. He’d say something like, ”Son, in a few years there won't be anybody left that knows how to pour concrete." And people would agree.

When I look at it now, and when I think about how we just lost him this year, I think about how much knowledge, wisdom, and work was lost with him. He had a lot of old vehicles he kept up, tractors that would run as long as he kept them running, gardens that would be planted, people he would've helped out. Now there’s still a few people who know how to pour concrete, but I’d say he was right without being exactly right. He was a really good man, and he left a void. There's going to be more voids and we need some people to fill those voids.

And I'll say this about tobacco: I don't know exactly what happened to it. I've heard they started taxing it to the point where you couldn't make money growing it. I know some people still smoke, but it's not nearly as many as it used to be. If you drove through Eastern Kentucky in the 80s or 90s you'd see tobacco planted around every curve, and barns sagging under its hanging weight while it dried after harvest. I can't find it now. I guess that's a positive thing, but it doesn't smell as good.

That's all I can say about it. I'm not crying or complaining or wishing everything was like it used to be. I'm just saying this is how it is. And I'm saying if I could choose any place on earth to be, I'd be playing something loud in an old truck with a bench seat, windows down, shifting into 4th on a curvy road right around the third week in October when the leaves are screaming and the weather is fine.

One more thing: the chorus is meant to be a nod to Okie from Muskogee, which seemed to make sense at the time.