WednesDays

If you go back into the dark foothills of the Appalachian Mountains and listen to the lonely wail of an old freight train, you will hear the roots of the Wednesdays. There are guns, there are bombs, there are riots in the street, and on the T.V. sets of America discord thrives like a rabid wolf. There has never been world peace. There has never been spiritual peace. Mothers cry for children. In Deep South Alabama the circle goes unbroken. Within this all, there is a fire. The Wednesdays are three brothers from Dixie pounding out rhythms like a thousand coal mining hammers. Alabama. The Old South. Home of the burning church. The land of corn, crows, bibles, and bullets. There are no heroes, there is only music. It is a Fire

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