"It's all about places, faces and feelings… Now, 'TTFP': Take the … 'Fffff—-fantastic' Picture!" (Friend and Photographic Mentor, Monte Zucker 1929-2007)
There’s a certain kind of twilight that only happens on the road — that breath between leaving and arriving, when the light turns forgiving and every story feels almost finished.
Evening Run at the Bluebird Motel is the third and final chapter of my Bluebird Trilogy, following Night Shift at the Liar’s Club and Day Shift at the Heartbreak Café. It’s a cinematic Americana album about release — about that moment when you stop looking for redemption and start finding peace in motion.
From the lonely hum of “Vacancy Sign” to the dawn epilogue “Bluebird Light,” each song carries a little humor, a little heartache, and a lot of light. There’s laughter in “The Ice Machine’s Lullaby,” memory in “Polaroid in the Drawer,” and motion in “Half Tank of Faith.” The title track, “Evening Run,” drifts like a waltz into forgiveness — the kind you don’t ask for, the kind that just happens when the road quiets down.
Artist’s Reflection – Bill Leyden
When I started writing Night Shift at the Liar’s Club, I thought it was about other people — the lost, the restless, the ones who couldn’t sleep. By the time I reached Evening Run at the Bluebird Motel, I realized it was about me learning to let go. These songs were never meant to fix anything; they were meant to forgive something — the past, the road, myself.
The Bluebird trilogy began in confession, passed through redemption, and ends here in release. Now the motel is miles behind, but I still see its glow sometimes in the rearview. That soft neon blue isn’t a place anymore — it’s a reminder that peace can find you anywhere, even on the way to somewhere else.
This record closes a long circle for me — one filled with stories, late-night neon, motel walls, and the quiet company of the open road. It’s a film for the ears, and I hope when you hear it, you feel that same Bluebird light rising somewhere inside you.
There are some stories that never really end — they just find a new song to travel through. Gringo Corazón II: Amor y Olvido is that kind of record.
It picks up where the first Gringo Corazónhttps://bill-leyden.bandcamp.com/album/gringo-coraz-n left off — with laughter still in the air, a little more mezcal in the glass, and the same tender curiosity for love, memory, and the people who remind us who we are.
These are stories told across tables, train cars, and plazas — half in Spanish, half in English, always from the heart.
Across nine songs, we meet friends and ghosts, wander old streets, and toast to everything we meant to forget but never did. From the playful chaos of Whiskey and Prayer Beads to the smoky elegance of Still Laughing in Spanish, and the dreamlike mystery of La Mujer del Tren, each track carries a piece of the same truth: the heart does what it wants — in any language.
The album closes with The Heart’s Got Its Own Plan, a wry, warm farewell that reminds us we’re all just maps without compasses, pointing south beneath the moon.
This project wouldn’t exist without all those nights of music, stories, and the laughter that followed. Gracias to everyone who’s joined me on this road — from Monterrey to Colima, from memory to melody.
So pour something good, turn up the volume, and enjoy the next chapter of the Gringo Corazón story.
Some songs start as stories, and some stories sneak up and turn into songs. Don’t See That Everyday is a collection of nine of those moments — little snapshots of life that surprised me, made me laugh, or stopped me long enough to notice something ordinary turning into something bigger.
These songs all came out of small towns, quiet roads, and late nights where things don’t look all that special until you slow down. There’s humor in a broken-hearted oil change, grace in a laundromat, a ghost in a barroom, and an angel who may or may not have been there at all. Each track has its own kind of truth, told with the mix of disbelief and gratitude that seems to come with getting older and paying attention.
I didn’t set out to write about miracles, but they kept showing up — not the thunderbolt kind, just the small ones that hide in everyday life. The kind that look like forgiveness, a wave from a porch, or someone refilling your coffee without asking.
“If you’re lookin’ for a miracle, this one’s small — but it’s everyday, after all.”
The album moves from curiosity to peace, from wonder to acceptance. By the time the last song fades, I hope it feels like driving home after sunset — headlights stretching down a familiar road, heart lighter than it was a mile ago.
Thanks for listening, and for finding yourself somewhere inside these stories. — Bill Leyden
There’s a point when all the old stories start to sound familiar — and you realize the only common thread might be you. That’s where Maybe It’s Me begins: a smile in the mirror, a shrug at the world’s opinion, and a deeper breath of acceptance.
These nine songs wander through self-deprecation, humor, and forgiveness — from the wry confessions of “I Guess It’s Me” and “The Way I Get Around,” to the morning tenderness of “Breakfast for Two” and the quiet self-recognition of “The Mirror’s Laugh.” By the time “Call It Grace” arrives, the jokes have softened into gratitude — not the loud kind, but the kind that lingers when the light changes at the end of the day.
Musically, the album keeps its boots in the dirt and its heart in the sky — Stratocaster and pedal steel trading glances, nylon-string warmth on the slower moments, and close harmonies that sound like friends still finishing each other’s sentences.
It’s a record about growing older, laughing easier, and letting life be funny, even when it’s true. Grace doesn’t always announce itself — sometimes it just shows up, late but steady, with a smile.
I’m excited to share my newest project, A Quiet Heart — a 9–track collection of songs shaped by stillness, reflection, and the quiet strength of presence.
The album blends singer-songwriter intimacy, Irish folk textures, and contemporary orchestration, weaving fingerpicked guitar, harp, fiddle, piano, and strings into a sound that feels both timeless and deeply personal.
Each song draws inspiration from ancient prayers, reimagined in modern poetic language. The themes move from lament to renewal, from rest to joy, capturing the whole spectrum of a contemplative journey:
Still Waters — finding rest in silence
Shelter of Your Wings — refuge and protection
Out of the Depths — lament turning toward hope
New Song for the Morning — sorrow transformed into joy
The Rock Beneath My Feet — trust and strength
The Broken and the Contrite — confession and renewal
Lift Up My Eyes — a pilgrim’s prayer
Every Breath a Song — celebration of life and praise
Everlasting Arms — the embrace of presence everywhere
This is not an album of direct scripture settings. Instead, it’s an invitation into the universal themes of longing, surrender, and joy — music for anyone who seeks moments of quiet clarity in a restless world.
There’s a certain kind of hero who never looks the part. He spills the kibble on his pants, shows up late to the dance, and somehow wins your heart anyway. That’s the spirit running through my new album, My First Rodeo.
It’s a collection of nine songs about life’s crooked lines, where humor and tenderness live side by side. These are stories of small-town detours, unexpected brushes with fame, cheeky misadventures, and the kind of love that finds you in the middle of the mess.
One of the tracks closest to my heart is Late to the Dance. It tells the story of a guy who means well but always gets caught in the details — walking Mama’s dog, fixing her TV remote, listening to her read from Reader’s Digest — until he finally shows up to the dance a little behind schedule. It’s funny, it’s tender, and it reminds us that sometimes the latecomer sees the night in a way no one else can.
The rest of the album follows in that same wry spirit: from the big buckle bravado of My First Rodeo to the comic wisdom of Zip It! to the warm domestic humor of This Calls for Coffee. There are brushes with luck, stories of legacy, and plenty of pedal steel and close harmonies to carry the ride.
If you’ve ever felt like the stumble-bum who somehow stumbles into grace, this album’s for you.
🎵 Listen to Late to the Dance here: Track Link 🎶 Explore the full album My First Rodeo: Album Link
I’m excited to share my new 10-song album, The Winner’s Curse, now streaming on Bandcamp.
What It’s About
The Winner’s Curse is a set of small victories and near misses—moments when luck, timing, and human nature twist the outcome just enough to sting. These songs capture the irony of wanting something just out of reach, the humor of good intentions gone sideways, and the quiet grace of letting go.
The Journey Track by Track
Here’s how the album unfolds:
Shut It Quick – When silence makes you irresistible and speaking up breaks the spell.
Wrong Side of Right – No matter what he tries, love keeps flipping the script.
Big Peccadillos – A sly confession of big-little flaws and guilty pleasures.
Missed It by a Mile – Close enough to taste it, too far to hold it.
Shot Right Up to the Middle – Aiming high and landing squarely in life’s perfect nowhere.
Part-Time Hero – Right place, right time, accidental heroism with a humble shrug.
Guess I Shoulda – Small hesitations that ripple into lasting what-ifs.
Breakin’ a Lucky Streak – Catching a sudden run of fortune, knowing it can’t last.
Toronto Layover – A fleeting airport romance that turns into a lesson in grace.
Round and Round – Life’s lessons looping back on themselves with a knowing smile.
Why It Matters
These songs live in the everyday choices that shape us: – The wave you don’t return. – The hero you never meant to be. – The love you almost had but never owned.
If you’ve ever felt like you “won” only to realize there was more to the story, you’ll recognize yourself in these tracks.
In small towns, the real stories don’t happen under stage lights. They unfold at the bingo hall, the burger bar, the quilt raffle, the hardware store aisle, and even at the post office window. They’re ordinary places — but they hold the kind of moments that stick with you.
A Small Town Diary, Vol. 2 continues the path started in the first diary: nine new songs that turn everyday errands and events into little love stories. Some are playful, some tender, and some downright surprising.
You’ll hear brass knuckles at bingo, a clumsy step in a line dancing class, a kiss stolen in the Tunnel of Love at the county fair, and a goodbye at the train station that turns into a beginning. Each song is a diary entry in its own right, built from small-town humor, close country harmonies, and a wink at how life rarely goes as planned.
These aren’t just songs about small towns. They’re about the way love sneaks in when you aren’t looking — while buying groceries, mailing a letter, or waiting for a train that may never take you away.
1. Bingo Night Breakdown A night meant for daubers and cards turns into chaos when gossip flies and brass knuckles make an appearance. Amid the uproar, sparks of romance sneak through the noise.
2. Line Dancing Lessons Sometimes two left feet can lead you right where you need to be. A clumsy turn on the floor becomes the start of something warmer, proving love doesn’t care if you miss a step.
3. The Pickup Came Through Again Trucks break down, tempers flare, but connection happens in the unlikeliest places. Even when the engine stalls, love finds a way to carry you home.
4. The Quilt Raffle Patchwork fabric stitched by many hands becomes a metaphor for life and love: frayed, imperfect, yet strong enough to bind strangers together in warmth.
5. Nuts and Bolts Romance in the hardware aisle. What starts with the wrong-size screws and a borrowed hand turns into something fastened tight — proof that love is built from the smallest pieces.
6. The County Fair Kiss Fireworks, teddy bears, the Tunnel of Love — summer nights don’t get more poetic or more surprising. A kiss at the fair outlasts the rides and games.
7. The Grocery Line Smile From peaches at the Piggly Wiggly, to a bottle of wine at Kroger, to a note at the A&P checkout, this one is about how romance keeps slipping into the basket when you’re just running errands.
8. Post Office Window Borrowed pens, numbered tickets, and overheard grumbles — even here, love can find its way, stamped and sealed in the unlikeliest of lines.
9. Train Station Goodbye The closer. What begins as a farewell beneath lanterns and steam turns into a beginning when she stays behind. A cinematic ending that proves sometimes goodbye is just love in waiting.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed producing it!
That old feeling starts at about this time of year – when August becomes a memory and the air begins to chill in the mornings. I find myself anticipating the coming season.
Every Christmas tells a story. For me, those stories take shape through music — sometimes playful, sometimes bittersweet, always rooted in love, memory, and tradition. This year, I’ve gathered three albums together as a kind of Christmas series, each with its own voice, but all connected by a search for warmth and truth in the season.
The featured album, Christmas in Mascoutah, is a collection of eight original songs drawn straight from small-town Midwestern life. From the laughter of a parade to the reverence of a midnight service, from the mischief of a yard display war to the tenderness of an empty chair by the tree, it’s a blend of humor, nostalgia, and heart. It’s Americana storytelling with pedal steel, Telecasters, and close country harmonies — a reminder that even in life’s changes, Christmas traditions hold us steady.
Alongside it, A Pedal Steel Christmas shines the spotlight on the instrument that can make a guitar cry and a heart soar. It’s a pure celebration of sound — the pedal steel weaving through carols and originals alike, giving the season a voice as timeless as the instrument itself. I’ve always admired this instrument and the way it can evoke emotion.
And Carols at the Hearth brings things closer still — intimate, candlelit, and inspired by mid-century jazz harmonies. It’s music for gathering by the fire, where songs feel less like performance and more like presence. I guess the inspiration comes from my early introduction to the wonderful carols of Alfred S. Burt and knowing his surviving family. In their home, Christmas came alive with decor, gatherings of friends and plenty of food and cheer.
Now, the Americana genre may not be for everyone, but I’d like to think that Toby Keith would have enjoyed Christmas in Mascoutah— for its honesty, for its humor, and for the way it carries a sense of place.
Each of these albums approaches Christmas from a different angle, but together they form a series — three ways of telling the same story: that Christmas, wherever you find it, is about connection, gratitude, and the kind of memories that keep us warm long after the snow melts.
Note:
Mascoutah is a charming small town in southern Illinois surrounded by family farms where life still moves at the pace of the seasons. Main Street has just one traffic light, and every storefront feels like part of the family. When you shop at the grocery, the hardware store, or the diner, chances are you’ll run into lifelong friends — people who know your history as well as your name. It’s the kind of place where Christmas isn’t just a holiday on the calendar, but a gathering of memory, community, and belonging.
A deep dive into the heartbreak of Pickett’s Charge through song
“We’re almost there, I can see the trees…”
Those opening lines of “The Copse of Trees” transport listeners to July 3, 1863—the third and final day of the Battle of Gettysburg. It’s a moment frozen in American memory: 15,000 Confederate soldiers stepping off across nearly a mile of open Pennsylvania farmland, marching toward a small grove of trees that represented their last, desperate hope for victory.
The Historical Moment
Pickett’s Charge has been called the “high-water mark of the Confederacy”—the moment when the Confederate cause came closest to success before breaking apart forever. General Robert E. Lee had gambled everything on one final, massive assault against the Union center on Cemetery Ridge. The target was a copse of trees that seemed almost within reach.
But as our narrator discovers in the song, proximity means nothing when dreams are collapsing. General Lewis Armistead, leading his men with his hat on the tip of his sword, would make it over the stone wall before falling mortally wounded. The charge that began with such hope would end in devastating failure.
The Power of First Person
What makes “The Copse of Trees” particularly powerful is its intimate, first-person perspective. Rather than observing the charge from a historical distance, we experience it through the eyes of a single Confederate soldier watching his world collapse in real time:
“Then Armistead stumbles, hat in the dust, The general’s down, the line goes slack. Boys are falling, the charge is broken, How in God’s name do I get back?”
This isn’t about military strategy or grand causes. It’s about a young man realizing that the trees he could almost touch might as well be a thousand miles away, and that his biggest concern is no longer victory—it’s simply surviving the retreat across that terrible open ground.
Universal Truths in Historical Moments
The genius of “The Copse of Trees” lies in how it transforms a specific Civil War moment into something universally recognizable. We’ve all had those moments when success seemed within reach, when we could “taste” our goal, only to watch everything fall apart. We’ve all faced the daunting journey back from failure, wondering how we’ll make it through.
The song’s final verse carries the deepest wound:
“The Copse of Trees still haunts my sleep, I see it when I close my eyes. The Copse of Trees, so close to glory— So far from where hope dies.”
This isn’t just about a Civil War battle. It’s about the dreams that remain tantalizingly close in our memories, the ones we almost achieved before circumstances tore them away. It’s about living with the weight of “what might have been.”
Musical Landscape
The track’s musical arrangement perfectly mirrors its emotional journey. Opening with contemplative fingerpicked guitar and that haunting electric guitar accents, it builds toward the charge’s climactic moment before settling into the somber reality of retreat and lifelong regret. The inclusion of fiddle with Celtic influences adds that elegiac quality that makes this track such a powerful modern tribute to to Civil War memory.
Part of a Larger Story
“The Copse of Trees” is one of nine tracks on “What Might Remain,” an album that explores the human cost of the Civil War from multiple perspectives. While this track gives voice to Confederate desperation and failure, other songs in the collection explore Union victory, family grief, and the long shadows cast by trauma. Together, they ask what endures when the battles end and the speeches are over.
Why These Stories Still Matter
In our current moment of political division and social upheaval, songs like “The Copse of Trees” remind us that history isn’t about heroes and villains—it’s about human beings caught in circumstances beyond their control, making impossible choices, and living with the consequences. The Confederate soldier in this song isn’t a symbol or a political statement. He’s a young man far from home, watching his world collapse, trying to survive.
That’s a story that transcends any particular war or cause. It’s a story about resilience, about carrying on when dreams die, about the weight of memory. It’s a story that, 160 years later, still has something to teach us about what it means to be human.
Listen to “The Copse of Trees” and the full album “What Might Remain”:
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