Raised in the ditches of Iowa, T. Wold began his musical career in child labor, shackled to "The Sound of Music", "Oliver", and Norwegian folk songs, sung in four part harmony in churches far and wide delivered in a nutbrown early 70's Ambassador Station Wagon with dried Jell-o on his lips. He has worked as a harbormaster and once tried selling apple cider to the rich and dirty. It didn't fit his moral code.
Labels: Thomas Wold
posted by Thomas Wold at
9:02 PM
A lanky yankee, part time migrant worker who sings the words that are written down in front of him by his own hand...words about love, dust, the road, and the lines along which we travel.
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1 Comments:
Oh Traveler, indeed. They said the road was long and winding, but I'm not sure if they said it'd occasionally turn toward home. Thanks to Thanksgiving and a visit with my sis who'd heard from your sis, I stumbled upon Buried Transmissions. Thanks to them and to you for that. -Pete
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