Time: 47:43
Size: 109.3 MB
Styles: Electric blues
Year: 2006
Art: Front
[3:33] 1. Out Of Sight
[4:50] 2. Blues Delight
[2:37] 3. Waddayamean
[4:46] 4. Slightly Hung Over
[3:56] 5. Nothing Special But The Blues
[3:10] 6. Apaches
[4:46] 7. Night Rider
[4:13] 8. Mademoiselle Super Cool
[4:36] 9. Lonelyville
[4:14] 10. Anonymous
[3:06] 11. The Look In Her Eyes
[3:51] 12. Rock Island Line
Vincent Beaulne: Dobro, guitars and vocals; Dave Turner: Alto sax; Laurent Trudel: Harmonica and guitars; Guy Richer: Bass; Gilles Schetagne: Drums. Top professionals from the Montreal International Jazz Festival blues scene joined forces yesterday with a team of unknown top gun songwriters to highjack a mystery train from Chicago to Mexico.
It all started with a song. Slowly. Like a ghost train picking up speed on a line that does not exist anymore. A train of thoughts slowly making its way in our minds, building its own tracks as it travels in the darkness, making rails of steel guitar strings, burning up any word or blues melody it could lay its wheels on. As we rode the night, we tried to figure out where we were going by looking at where we had been. Cityscapes, glittering with lights like ancient jewels. Landscapes, half drowned by the moon. There was no map we could use. Only a frail compass, its shaky needle magnetized by our own instinct. In the blurred motion, only one thing was clear: move on a straight line and stay in the circle, always.
Then it happened. Somebody recognized a street corner. We were leaving Chicago... Going north or south? We had no idea. The next morning, we were restless. Things seemed even worst. We were moving faster. We were going nowhere fast. The compass was acting crazy. We would point it at the rising sun and it would show west. We had no idea. We needed a break. A lucky break. Out of the blue, the bell rang as somebody accidentally pulled the whistle cable. Immediately, the train started to slow down.
Like in a dream, we drifted quietly, passing by one abandoned station after another: Jackson, Memphis, Atlanta, St-Louis… Soon after, we entered the Southwest. In the desert, the night wind was howling, carrying haunting voices and cries from the past. We stood silent in the engine room, as the train traveled sacred ground…
It all started with a song. Slowly. Like a ghost train picking up speed on a line that does not exist anymore. A train of thoughts slowly making its way in our minds, building its own tracks as it travels in the darkness, making rails of steel guitar strings, burning up any word or blues melody it could lay its wheels on. As we rode the night, we tried to figure out where we were going by looking at where we had been. Cityscapes, glittering with lights like ancient jewels. Landscapes, half drowned by the moon. There was no map we could use. Only a frail compass, its shaky needle magnetized by our own instinct. In the blurred motion, only one thing was clear: move on a straight line and stay in the circle, always.
Then it happened. Somebody recognized a street corner. We were leaving Chicago... Going north or south? We had no idea. The next morning, we were restless. Things seemed even worst. We were moving faster. We were going nowhere fast. The compass was acting crazy. We would point it at the rising sun and it would show west. We had no idea. We needed a break. A lucky break. Out of the blue, the bell rang as somebody accidentally pulled the whistle cable. Immediately, the train started to slow down.
Like in a dream, we drifted quietly, passing by one abandoned station after another: Jackson, Memphis, Atlanta, St-Louis… Soon after, we entered the Southwest. In the desert, the night wind was howling, carrying haunting voices and cries from the past. We stood silent in the engine room, as the train traveled sacred ground…
Rock Island Line mc
Rock Island Line zippy