Tallyhand Whispers from Scrapgold by Klondeen
The air grows heavy here, thick with shared secrets and the quiet scratch of a quill on ledger paper. This track pulls you into the backrooms of Creekbent, where the Tallyhand Society maps out the settlement's true currency: whispered confessions and buried truths. It's a deliberate journey into the core of how information becomes a weapon, exploring deep concepts of power and vulnerability in a world where promises break like kindling. The sound itself is a sparse fusion of styles, acoustic fingerpicking laying down an intimate, almost conspiratorial rhythm while subtle pump organ textures drift underneath, creating a sense of unease. There are no soaring choruses here; the entire piece unwinds as a series of hushed revelations, each verse building its own quiet tension. Listen closely for the unique sounds and articulations—the actual field recordings of hushed voices, pages turning, and the distinct scratch of ink, all woven seamlessly into the music. It’s an unvarnished account, a stark narrative drawn directly from the grimy margins of a forgotten diary, challenging what a song needs to be while pulling you into the hidden pulse of Creekbent.
Tracklist
| 3. | Tallyhand Whispers | 3:42 |
Lyrics
Ledger pages whisper soft
Ink still wet from midnight's hand
Someone spilled their secrets here
Written small across the land
Behind the trading post they meet when darkness claims the settlement ground
Trading confessions for copper coins while the tallyhand scribes jot every sound
Old Henrik sold his claim today but swears his partner stole the deed
Young Mary's husband left for town - she needs the money more than need
The ledger holds what can't be said in daylight's honest, burning glare
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Claimer Jones admits he's broke, been washing dirt for three long weeks
The widow Thompson knows which men come calling when her husband sleeps
Black Pete's been watering down his gold, mixing brass with honest find
Sarah's boy ain't coming home - the war took more than peace of mind
Each secret weighs a different price depending who might need to know
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The tallyhand remembers all but speaks of nothing in the square
He keeps his books in cipher code - some truths too heavy for the air
Tonight they bring him stories of the claim jumper's midnight ride
How fortune shifts like creek-bent mud when honest folks got things to hide
The ink runs black but truth runs deeper in the margins of his careful hand
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When morning breaks they'll all go back to playing parts they've always played
But in these walls the real accounts of Creekbent's fortunes will be weighed
The ledger closes with a snap, the lamp burns low, the session ends
Until tomorrow brings fresh guilt and broken trust from former friends
The tallyhand blows out the flame but keeps the secrets burning bright
Credits
License
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We're the soundtrack to your backroad pilgrimage – dusty boots, broken hearts, and whiskey salvation. Our mud-caked melodies and campfire confessions tell tales of fools who struck gold in all the wrong places.