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Pavorreal Sessions

by The Chivalrous Crickets

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Out on the threshold 'tween land and the sea Where the wind and the waves keep us lonely and free we live among driftwood that groups on the shore and we call the tall sand dunes our home [chorus] Our Fathers before us were part of their game But they casted us out and the slandered our name But we are the wreckers of Sassafras Bay And we call the tall sand dunes our home Over from England our ancestors sailed Against the injustice of rule they prevailed but freedom brought power they practiced in turn So we call the wild sand dunes our home When the storms tear at our Chersonese arc we scan the horizon for clippers and barques we do what we can to save every man but we call the cruel sand dunes our home They say that we mooncuss and lure with our lights The merchants and sailors who pass by at night We neither give solace nor offer false hope Tho we call the harsh sand dunes our home We live off the plunder the sea claims as pay the scraps that it gives to the shores of the bay we take what we find and we call it our own but we call the tall sand dunes our home
All of the ash has long since gone In all the forest ‘round here All of the ash, they rot where they stand Oh they’ve died in the field. All of the trees they’re dying in the wood No safe home for to find All of the trees they’re dying in the wood Dying from mankind All of the plants growing from the ground They dying with fear All of the plants growing from the ground They’re shedding mournful tears Oh my brothers, we gotta change our ways Now we’re but a wretched curse Oh my sisters, we gotta change our ways Let us live so light upon this earth
There was a house on a hill a home of moonshiners still Built of barbed wire and the patient fire of a refugee The lovers laid where seeds are sewn, the children played And if this home can have a heart, then this house can bleed. Some had dreamed and others lied, the masters rich and the workers died But blood and gold, it all flows downstream Below the dreams bled in the field, some were lies from devils real And they cried a smoky mountain elegy. There was a lie, there was a dream, the field was left to lay and bleed The devils flew, oh as quick as they came No river to wash away the sins, the water’s gone with trees and wind They promised change, oh but this ain’t the same. Oh, my Appalachian ancient manger, I shed my blood at the first sign of danger The hour’s late and the pots and kettles all black You will outlive us with the better angels, drive the devils from your smoky ranges But beasts as us, it’s best we don’t come back. music & lyrics by Paul Morton
Highway Moon 03:27
Highway moon, roll out a bed for me tonight Pull apart the palisades into your satellite One day I’ll be a local at an oak top bar But tonight I’ll make my home under the stars Highway moon, roll out a bed for me tonight Hitch my wagon to a caravan of fireflies Into the gloam so far that west turns into east Where less becomes the most of all and profit matters least Roll on road till the pavement is undone On the road I rise and set with the sun Highway moon, roll through the waves with me tonight Kill the preacher’s megaphone and feed my appetite For sea-changed eyes before I tend a plotted yard Tonight I’ll lay my head somewhere afar Highway moon, roll out a bed for me tonight Through the asphalt arteries of alabaster heights Join the wind that tumbles down the road as it’s undone Where I can rise and set with the sun
Oh, as I rode out one morning fair Over lofty hill, moorland and mountain, It was there I met with a fine young girl, While I with others was hunting. No shoes nor stockings did she wear; Neither had she hat nor had she feather, But her golden curls, aye, and ringlets rare In the gentle breeze played round her shoulders. I said, “Fair lassie, why roam your lane? Why roam your lane among the heather?” She said, “My father's away from home And I'm herding of his ewes together.” I said, “Fair lassie, if you'll be mine And you lie on a bed o' feathers, In silks and satin it's you will shine, And you'll be my queen among the heather.” She said, “Kind sir, your offer is good, But I'm afraid it's meant for laughter, For I know you are some rich squire's son And I'm a poor lame shepherd's daughter.” “Oh, but had you been some shepherd lad A-herding ewes among the heather, Or had you been some ploughman's son, It's with all my heart I would have loved you.” Now, I've been to balls and I have been to halls; I have been to London and Balquhidder, But the bonniest lassie that ever I did see She was herding of her ewes together. So we both sat down upon the plain. We sat awhile and we talked together, And we left the ewes for to stray their lane, Till I won my queen among the heather.
Welcome one and all to this house of kingly fowl Rusty tiles baking, forlorn lonesome legions 'gainst the Gauls a'howl With new Pennsylvania oil riches flowing forth For his California wife a man of means laid brick in mortared course. Ne'er could he imagine in sixty-some odd years or so Left to rot and crumble, molding carpet spreading with a yard unmown May you ne'er endure the stench that lived within the floors Hounds and mutts and squatters in the halls had made their happy home so poor It was not so long ago, their three daughters grown A pair of lovers seeking. beauty claimed it as their very own. They ripped up the carpets, they sanded down the floors A rose with petals wilted may return to glory at its core. One cannot imagine when they come upon Oaken pillars formed like woven braids of some forgotten Don Like oil, manna flowing - Rejuvenation These halls again hold laughter, music ringing out from dusk till dawn.


In the midst of the COVID19 quarantine we were able to gather to experience an artist retreat at Fiona and Genevieve's family home. Nicknamed La Casa Pavorreal (the House of the Peacock), for prevailing decorative choices and its Spanish Colonial Revival style, the house located outside Bethlehem, Pennsylvania served as the backdrop and cradle for the seven numbers featured in this collection after five days of writing, arranging, and recording.


released October 25, 2020

Benjamin Matus: pipes, dulcian, bassoon
Benjamin Stewart: vocals, mandolin, guitar, percussion
Doug Balliett: bass (guest)
Elliot Cole: guitar (guest)
Fiona Gillespie: vocals, whistle, flute, dulcimer
Genevieve Gillespie: fiddle, vocals
Paul Morton: banjo, theorbo, vocals, baroque guitar

Elliot Cole: mastering
Joel Metzler: mixing and editing
Paul Morton: recording engineer


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The Chivalrous Crickets New York, New York

The Chivalrous Crickets is an exciting young band
exploring the roots, branches, and crossroads of Celtic, English, and American folk music,
with a focus on boldly reimagined arrangements of standards,
and original songs with traditional influence.
... more

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