Doug Brouder grew up in Connecticut on the hard side of a soft town, on the river, among tobacco and corn fields and orchards. He learned to play a guitar in college deep in the night when everyone else was trying to sleep and he wrote what he knew. Evolution has taken place over the years, and now Doug writes what he wonders, what he thought he knew, and incredibly occasionally, what he wants to know.

Influenced by Chuck Berry and the Drifters, Patsy Cline and Hank, The Beatles and The Byrds and the three kings - Albert, Freddie and BB. Doug has drawn from Ian and Sylvia and old Judy Collins, Joni and Ani and Karla Bonoff. Anyone who has ever picked up a flattop or plugged in a plank, stomped on the floor. Doug is channelling the wind, the rain, the seasons in those places that still have them and Shakespeare's folk songs and Bob Dylan's sonnets and Woody and Bruce, and of course, woodsmoke and cut grass.

A perfect tomato. Wordsworth. Fresh sweet corn. The language of the King James version. Swimming at Cotton Hollow on the first warm enough day and cutting broadleaf tobacco til my hands bled. Single 'a' ball. Thomas Edison and Thomas Jefferson and Thomas' english muffins. Splitting wood as the first snow falls. That's where the sound comes from.