Here’s a quick description to give you a hint…
“Welcome to Knob’s End—The Holiest Town in America.”
So reads the sign that greets a mysterious stranger as he steps off a bus one dark night in upstate New York. But life is not so great in the small town of Knob’s End. The economy has tanked, jobs are drying up, and people are losing their homes. Led by their local pastor, Father Balano, the citizens’ only source of pride is an award-winning community display—“The Graveyard of the Innocent.” Once the stranger arrives, however, life in Knob’s End begins to unravel. Soon, a child is missing and the sins start stacking up. As the stranger stirs the pot, he can’t avoid confrontations with menacing old ladies, anarchic metalheads, pugnacious Christians, and the ghosts of his own past…
No Tears for Old Scratch is a dark and humorous literary tale about an outsider who suddenly finds himself lost in a veritable dead-end.
The new novel, No Tears For Old Scratch, coming this Spring.
El Mano Negro’s brand new EP, “A Man’s Home is His Tombstone,” has finally arrived. The EP includes three new songs: “The Thin Man Never Saw It Coming,” “Go Down to the River Esmerelda,” and a cover of a Johnny Cash’s “San Quentin” (done-up in our own dust devil voodoo blues style). You can listen to the new tracks below and you can pick up the EP from Bandcamp, iTunes, Amazon, or Google Play. You can also stream it via Spotify. And if you dig it, don’t forget to check out the Memento Mori EP.
Here it is… the brand new El Mano Negro EP with three new songs, including a cover of a Johnny Cash classic (done-up in our own dust devil voodoo blues style).
You can pre-order the EP now from Bandcamp and get to stream the songs right away. Once the EP goes on sale August 27th, you’ll receive an e-mail with a link so you can download your copy.
James Salter discusses the relationship between writing and travel from an old Paris Review interview:
INTERVIEWER: Does the travel help your writing?
SALTER: It’s essential for me. There is no situation like the open road, and seeing things completely afresh. I’m used to traveling. It’s not a question of meeting or seeing new faces particularly, or hearing new stories, but of looking at life in a different way. It’s the curtain coming up on another act.I’m not the first person who feels that it’s the writer’s true occupation to travel. In a certain sense, a writer is an exile, an outsider, always reporting on things, and it is part of his life to keep on the move. Travel is natural. Furthermore, many men of ancient times died on the road, and the image is a strong one. Kings of Arabia, when they are buried, are not given great tombs. They are buried on the side of the road beneath ordinary stones. One thing I saw in England long ago struck me and has always stayed with me. I was going to visit someone in a little village, walking from the railway station across the fields, and I saw an old man, perhaps in his seventies, with a pack on his back. He looked to be a vagabond, dignified, somewhat threadbare, marching along with his staff. A dog trotted at his heels. It was an image I thought should be the final one of a life. Traveling on.