The Gunshy, the musical appendage of Matt Arbogast, has always been a telling example of one man's stab at chronicling all of the succor and rottenness that come from days that fall with the buttered side up or the buttered side down, when you've got to make a choice to placate your glass half empty side or brush off the dirt and grime and just keep smiling and eating your bread. There are always better days and there are always worse days to have to deal with and Arbogast recognizes that simple thought, but he also knows that rarely does one totally eclipse the other.
They have equal shines, similar devilish smiles and dimples to boot. There's nothing much like a loved one turning out to be someone not worth loving or incapable of returning the favor. There's nothing worse than uncertain times and flurries - fleets of ghost ships carrying lost times and passing through the ethers with transparent waves and no expressions to figure out. The littlest things can become hauntings that follow us like ducklings or kite string.
Not all of Arbogast's songs are so devastating, but they do all have the qualities of vivid recollection and a need to move through him and out into the open air by way of a gruff voice that waltzes like ragtag brogue. He hurts and it hurts - that voice - but he makes claims to live the hell out of this life and he lets the ever graceful powers of cheap whiskey work their wonders.
*Essay originally published April, 2008