I imagine most of you haven't had the pleasure of hearing Bill Morrissey. He died on the same day as Amy Winehouse. I last saw him in November; it was a dingy, former church, out in the sticks of New Hampshire, perhaps there were 50 people in attendance. He was frail, in need of cataract surgery, but still in good humor, and THAT VOICE was intact. I usually am not drawn to "folkies" but for Bill, I made the exception. His lyrics resonate with the New England I have grown up with.

This entry from Rolling Stone provides some terrific insight into where he was coming from:

"With his prematurely cracked voice and his sensibility in shift between fatalistic resignation and wry wit, Bill Morrissey resembles a New England version of prime John Prine. A story-song writer with a great gift for the telling detail, he paints snowy, psychic landscapes of the kind Raymond Carver fashioned-his deadend, small-town Northeast is filled with losers and misfits perpetually reaching for the bottle; factory girls who rendezvous with hard-luck cases; old sentimental landmarks that fall victim to the wrecking ball. "

Here's one of my favorites:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CxttvnCCTB8

Peter T.