Live at the Black Rose Acoustic Society

by Gadbaw & Krimmel

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TO PURCHASE a physical CD- ($15.00 + shipping) contact us at MARGOTKRIMMEL@GMAIL.COM

Live show recorded in Colorado Springs Sept, 2015. Great venue, enthusiastic crowd, excellent recording, mixing and mastering by Butch Hause, Berthoud, CO. Includes original compositions in the Celtic folk genre as well as impeccably arranged traditional tunes. Vocals, harmonies, Celtic Harp, some fiddle and uillean pipes.

credits

released January 15, 2016

Beth Gadbaw vocals, bodhrán
Margot Krimmel, vocals, Celtic harp
Beth Harmon, fiddle
Eric Olson, ulilean pipes

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Gadbaw & Krimmel Colorado

Beth Gadbaw & Margot Krimmel perform their own unique arrangements of Celtic & American folk music, as well as their own compositions. Angelic vocals, sparkling harp, rhythmic bodhrán, and surprisingly intricate vocal harmonies define their unforgettable sound, delivered with masterful musicianship and genuine joy.

"This is my favorite Christmas harp and voice CD!"_Sylvia Woods
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Track Name: Across the Western Ocean
Oh the work is hard and the wages low, Ameila. where you bound for?
The Rocky Mountains are my home, Across the Western Ocean.

We are bound to leave our friends and home, Amelia, where you bound for? We might find love and we might find gold, Across the Western Ocean.

Well it’s there you’ll find the promised land, Amelia, where you bound for?
With rolling hills and sparkling sands, Across the Western Ocean.

So Mother, do not cry for me, Amelia, where you bound for?
I'm going for to seek my dreams, Across the Western Ocean.
Track Name: Innisfree
The Lake Isle of Innisfree
W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Track Name: The White Birds
THE WHITE BIRDS by: W.B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose;
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam: I and you!

I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily, and fret of the flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
Track Name: Blackbirds and Thrushes
If all the young ladies were Blackbirds and Thrushes
Then all the young boys would go round beating bushes

If all the young ladies were ducks on the water
Then all the young boys would go in swimming after

If all the young ladies were rushes a growing
The men with their scythes would go in and get mowing

If all the young ladies were hares on the mountain
The men with their hounds would go in with out counting
Track Name: Native Columbine
Lyrics by Beth Gadbaw ©2015

Where snow gleams on the mountain and rivers swell in spring,
Where wild flowers paint the meadows and the aspen sigh and sing,
From the first bird’s song at morning light, ‘til the night sky’s a starlit lace,
Where the native columbine does grow, beneath the flatiron face.

Along the cattle paths we’d walk, to watch the herons nest,
And wander on the old Ute trail, on the banks of the St Vrain we’d rest.
To see a doe and her gentle fawn, stand and linger with out haste,
Where the native columbine does grow, beneath the flatiron face.

We are not the first to love this land, she has suitors near and far,
Her peaceful air that breathes us life, as we wish upon her stars,
We rest in shade of her evergreens, and we dance in open space,
Where the native columbine does grow, beneath the flatiron face.

And when the wheel of life runs out, and memories remain,
Just take me back to that scared ground, where the Rockies meet the plains,
And celebrate her spirit and beauty, for there is no time to waste,
Where the native columbine does grow, beneath the flatiron face.
Track Name: The Whistling Thief
Samuel Lover (1797-1868)