It started with a song, or lots of songs on tapes and CD’s stacked in wooden crates on a windowsill gathering dust. Someone died and someone was born and some songs were recorded in a room on an old carpet and gathered up and called Up These Branches. And another thing was born which was called Friend of All the World.
These songs went out to look for like-minded people and found a few, and then a few more. Some moved on and some stayed, and sat, and strummed banjos and played violin on the grass, in garages and any other places where a guitar case could be laid down as a stand for a harmonium and where a few might stop by and sit and listen.
All of this took place in a city in the middle of a river with a great mountain at its heart. Crowding these slopes between the water and the sky, a winding steel and concrete clutch of people and cars charged tirelessly forward.
New songs were sung of this place and for this place and its people. Some of these songs came together and were called The Wild and were wrapped in a little blanket and worried over for a season. And then the snow came again and the time seemed right to open the window and set these loose as well.