More songs by Charley Crockett
Description
It smells of road dust and hot metal. The air shimmers as if the heat itself is playing the blues, and every step along the motorway is an admission of both fatigue and freedom. Somewhere ahead, the sun rolls lazily, painting the world in the colours of old whisky and overheated asphalt.
Everything around seems to pretend it knows where it's going, but in reality, it's just waiting - waiting for the heat to subside, for it to become easier, for the burning inside to stop. And there is something soothing about this waiting: loneliness sounds like music if you listen closely.
Sound engineer, producer: Shuter Jennings
Composer, lyricist, producer, vocalist: Charlie Crockett
Sound engineer, sound engineer: David Spring
Second sound engineer: Nate Hassley
Mastering sound engineer: Pete Lyman
Administrator and manager: Gabriel Rosen
Coordinator and producer: Sundya Alter
Composer and lyricist: Domenico Colarossi
Lyrics and translation
Original
He doesn't say too much
And his throat is dry
What he wants
Is a bottle of rye
Born just to play
A bad luck hand
This here's the tale
Of a Texican
As the night rolls in
And the sun goes down
He'll find himself
In a different town
All the good time women
Prophets drunks and thieves
Will soon find out
What the Texican means
Mexican boots
And a Stetson hat
Gun is slung low
With the trigger tied back
These are the marks
Of a fighting man
A kind they call
The Texican
Jingling spurs
On a hardwood door
A poker game
Just made for four
But if you sit in
For a card or two
You'll wind up dead
Before you're through
Border winds
Border winds
Where do you go
Cover my trail tonight
English translation
He doesn't say too much
And his throat is dry
What he wants
Is a bottle of rye
Born just to play
A bad luck hand
This here's the tale
Of a Texican
As the night rolls in
And the sun goes down
He'll find himself
In a different town
All the good time women
Prophets drunks and thieves
Will soon find out
What the Texican means
Mexican boots
And a Stetson hat
Gun is slung low
With the trigger tied back
These are the marks
Of a fighting man
A kind they call
The Texican
Jingling spurs
On a hardwood door
A poker game
Just made for four
But if you sit in
For a card or two
You'll wind up dead
Before you're through
Border winds
Border winds
Where do you go
Cover my trail tonight