A haunting melody I learned at a folk camp this summer. The composer, Jen Jones, was described to me as a woman who "lives quietly in the mountains and creates beautiful music." When I sang the...
A haunting melody I learned at a folk camp this summer. The composer, Jen Jones, was described to me as a woman who "lives quietly in the mountains and creates beautiful music." When I sang the piece, it was under the trees, near the water, a gentle breeze rustling leaves and friends wandering about.
I almost regret not having a recording, but perhaps the moment is the more sacred for its evanescence. In so peaceful a setting I was especially moved by the song's wishful homeward call.
Lyrics:
I was down in the lowlands, where I don't know the stones
Doubt held my mind like a cloud
Heart's needle to North, like a bell ... rung (bell rung aloud)
Mountains are calling me, Oh, Oh, come higher, come home
I had, but seem no longer to have, a set of sheet music to accompany the piece. We were also taught a drone accompaniment that created an emotional and atmospheric harmony, possibly this one arranged by Heidi Wilson or a similar one. The recording I've linked feels as though it is what I remember singing (but memory is a fickle mistress). If one wished, one could transcribe it.
A haunting melody I learned at a folk camp this summer. The composer, Jen Jones, was described to me as a woman who "lives quietly in the mountains and creates beautiful music." When I sang the piece, it was under the trees, near the water, a gentle breeze rustling leaves and friends wandering about.
I almost regret not having a recording, but perhaps the moment is the more sacred for its evanescence. In so peaceful a setting I was especially moved by the song's wishful homeward call.
Lyrics:
I had, but seem no longer to have, a set of sheet music to accompany the piece. We were also taught a drone accompaniment that created an emotional and atmospheric harmony, possibly this one arranged by Heidi Wilson or a similar one. The recording I've linked feels as though it is what I remember singing (but memory is a fickle mistress). If one wished, one could transcribe it.