Muddy Hymns by Rattlecane

MUDDY HYMNS

We hauled these songs up from the bottomland where our grandfolks once whispered their hurts and hopes. Ain't no pretty polish here—just the sound of callused hands on homemade instruments and voices that learned to sing between the cotton rows.

When we started recording "Muddy Hymns," the rain beat down so hard on that old tin-roof shack we was using that we had to wait for the storm to pass. Figured that was just the land joining in. That's what this album is—the land speaking through us.

Each track comes from somewhere real. "Lantern Kisses" grew from stories my great-aunt told about forbidden meetings by lamplight. "Black Soil Choir" happened after we stomped through a marsh grave during a thunderstorm, feeling ghosts rise up through our boots.

You'll hear chains we found in an abandoned barn used as percussion on "The Rattler's Hymn." That porch-board creak on "Moss-Crowned Bones"? That's Deke's grandmama's front steps that survived three floods.

We don't play pretty. Our slide guitar's made from rusty tin and broken bottles. Our drums are whatever we could pound on. And when we sing about fire in "Crackled Brush Crown," that's because we watched lightning take three acres last summer, standing there helpless with buckets.

"Field Call Mercy" might break you—it broke us recording it. Had to take a whole day after laying down those vocals. Too much ancestor in the room.

By the time you reach "Raise That Thunder," you'll feel what we feel—that defiance ain't just anger. It's hope with teeth.

This ain't museum blues. This is mud-on-your-face, sweat-in-your-eyes blues. This is the sound of people who know both the weight of chains and the sweet relief when they finally break.

So pour something strong, turn it up loud, and let these muddy hymns take you down roads where the pines bend low and spirits walk tall.

Swamp-born rebellion pounded from splintered wood and rusted metal. We drag old ghosts through Delta mud, hammer chains for rhythm, and spit coded freedom songs that'd make the ancestors rise. Raw, righteous blues with dirt under its nails.