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For five weeks now, I record underscoring on Sunday afternoons. The guitars are all out, a bouquet of wood and strings and empty cases spread across the living room. Mic cables are underfoot. A glass of whiskey stands, the ice long melted. And then when everyone has gone to sleep, I sit in my favorite chair at a tiny white table and record narration for the next episode. I try to follow my notes. I want to touch on the people, and the life moments as much as the story behind each song that became my album.  Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, scratching down a detail to include.  A little crack in the wall to explore.  It was so strange at first, sitting alone in a room talking to people that were not there. But now, I see them all. This podcast is not a message in a bottle that I toss wildly into the ocean, with no idea who will find it. I know it is being heard and that brings me great comfort.  Someone I respect a great deal threw down a gauntlet to all of his listeners

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