Hey, welcome back to the semi seminarian where
we don't just break bread We break down the lyrics
This is another pit stop on our back roads revival
known as theology in three chords Or folk songs
and red dirt laments sit side by side with old
stories Campfire myths and outlaw dreams like
they've always belonged there some folks crack
open a hymnal to hear from God and I do too,
but I also am willing to listen to a fiddle through
a bus to damp on a dim lit stage in Ada because
you know what that's where the sacred stuff hides
in the static in the half -forgotten in the picking
and the whale and the long silences in between
you ever hear a song that made your bones remember
something your mind never learned That's how
Randy Crouch writes, not not hits, homings, songs
that call you back to the dirt and then sling
you into orbit. He's not just a songwriter, he's
a time traveler with a telecaster in a fiddly
mystique in cowboy boots, a man who makes the
cosmic feel contrified and the divine sound like
it came from a pawn shop and. And understanding
his lyrics aren't easy. They're elliptical. They're
cracked open like old Bibles and ashtrays. You
don't sing along with Randy. You fall into him.
And he pulls you through wormholes with a chorus.
And when you come out on the other side, you're
not entirely sure what changed, but something
did. And today, saints and sinners, we're talking
about a song that's as wild as Revelation, as
cryptic as Ezekiel. And as beautiful as Isaiah's
coal -fired vision the song where theology gets
abducted fed mushrooms Handed a telecaster and
told go play something honest This one is part
parable part fever dream Cosmic Western where
the campfire turns into a launch pad Today we're
diving into Randy Crouch's masterpiece the epic
and At least I hope I'll see you on the other
side Well the Cowboys were out picking around
the range when they thought they heard something
sound real strange and they looked up to see
a spaceship Coming down to land It starts like
this a bunch of Cowboys out on the range plucking
strings binding their own When they hear something
strange, something not from around here, they
look up, and sure enough, there's a spaceship
coming in hot, landing right there in the middle
of the dust. The aliens step out cool as you
please. They say they caught wind of a music
from way out yonder. They said they had to drop
by and get in on this jam. Trail Boss doesn't
blink. Just waves them in, pours some whiskey,
and says, There's beans in the pot. Let's see
what y 'all got and they play and Lord do they
play These visitors with trout skin shimmer and
three blinking eyes don't stop to tune They just
cross their eyes grip their axes and let the
sound rip loose across the plains Cowboys and
cosmic pickers passing a bottle trading solos
around the fire that crackles like the edge of
creation And they get drunker They get higher.
The fire don't die and neither does the groove.
Then one of the aliens leans in close. Here's
a cowboy swing just right and says, we know a
place where all the horses have wings. And that
line hits different. It should. That's not a
joke. Not in Randy's song. That's not a metaphor.
To Randy, that's an invitation. We know a place
where all the horses have wings Billy Bob looked
up at that star got his bedroll packed his guitar
and said You got it trout face How long will
we be gone Billy Bob doesn't waste a moment?
He looks up at that star the alien pointed to
rolls up his bedroll sings his guitar over his
shoulder and says you got it, buddy He don't
ask where they're headed He does wonder how long
they've been gone, but he just gets told we'll
pass those time warps on the way, and we just
may make it back here by the break of dawn. That's
kind of calling you won't get in a Sunday school.
The kind of faith that's half stardust, half
honky tonk and all heart. Billy Bob doesn't hesitate.
He's not running from anything. He's running
to something. to a place where songs don't end
and the horses ain't bound by gravity. And the
thing about Billy Bob, he's not special in the
Sunday best sense. He's got a limp in his step,
a cigarette burn in his songbook. He's just got
ears to hear and that's, that's all the aliens
needed. The folks in the audience never knew
that that third eye wasn't put on with glue and
they said it wasn't anything new in the Rolling
Stone. Earth didn't seem like home anymore So
they got two friends and they left to explore
They come back eventually Sun burnt and spaced
out Smiling like men who's seen something holy
and what happens? The Rolling Stone says it's
all a gimmick says the third eyes just a stunt
Says this space country blend is just another
try -hard act clawing for relevance. It wasn't
Anything new in the Rolling Stone that line right
there is heartbreak wrapped in satire It's the
shrug of the establishment towards anything raw
real authentic but unmarketable Because when
the sacred gets strange polite folks will often
call it nonsense When the music gets too true,
they'll write it off as noise. So the band doesn't
argue, doesn't explain. They just nod, call their
friends, head back out to the stars. They form
a band, a swinging science fiction country western
band beaming through the systems from what they
now call the promised land. They play wherever
they're welcome planets moons orbiting bars where
time folds in on itself As long as there's a
mic and a place to get a drink. They're good
to go Granddad said get on out of here Billy
Bob go play your tunes Chase those flying horses
across the sky with seven noon's and play for
every creature that you can They're not chasing
fame They're chasing the jam building a universe
out of broken cords and perfect imperfections
and Everybody's blasted on an everlasting high
because now Everyone's got their own horse to
fly So what do we make of it all maybe this Holy
doesn't always look holy. Sometimes it's barefooted,
bearded, and blasting off with a telecaster and
a fiddle in the same song. And maybe grace is
just the willingness to say yes to the strange.
Maybe the most spiritual thing you can do is
join the jam, even if you don't know the chords.
Randy Crouch didn't write a hymn, he wrote a
homecoming. A home for the weirdos, the wanderers.
and the winged -horsed riders who never felt
quite at home on earth. And you know what? That's
good news. And maybe, maybe just maybe, that
place with winged horses and never -ending sound
waves, maybe that is the promised land. Not paved
in gold, but ringing with reverb. A bar with
no last call. A band that never runs out of songs.
So, If you hear something tonight, something
strange, some echo from the stars, some fiddle
lick that don't sound quite human, don't ignore
it. That's your invitation. Pack up your guitar,
saddle up. There's a stage in the sky. And you
know what? It's got your name on it. And somewhere
out there past the Pleiades between Pickup Note
and the Punchline, the UFO touches down. Maybe
not in a blaze of glory, maybe just quiet like.
Like a beer can clicking on a tailgate. That's
the thing about the good news, it doesn't always
arrive with trumpets. Sometimes it drifts down
in a crazy fiddle riff. Sometimes it smells like
sweat and cedar smoke. Sometimes it sounds like
an alien voice saying, y 'all mind if we sit
in for a tune? So let's leave this tale where
it belongs. Not framed, not finished. It's still
out there playing on some outlaw frequency, still
calling out to anyone who's ever felt too weird
for Sunday morning, too real for the radio. But
remember, the jam goes on. Fire's still warm.
There's still beans in the pot. And the horses?
Well, they've all got wings now. I'll see you
next time.