Dusk came on the heels of noon and the post-holiday glow of Laura Gibson’s living room is a warming counterpoint. A neat cage of instruments line the red walls: those keyboarded and gourded and stringed. Paper chains wrap the Christmas tree like a winding mountain road. Strings of lights twinkle. It’s a document of the quaint and gentle customs of the artist, her partner, and his teenage daughter; a gathering place for their Christmas of handmade paper chains.
We don’t spend much time in here– just long enough to make tea and get organized. We’re headed outside. On to the backyard, where Gibson’s sky blue Shasta trailer is parked.
The low sky arrives with an insignificant but persistent mist, and a tire swing hangs in the center of the yard. A tangle of bikes and plywood and barrels line the house. The little blue trailer sits lengthwise beside the fence.
Laura and two bandmates file inside, bringing with them guitar, floor tom, and tambourine. The trailer isn’t much shelter in weather like this, but they’ll warm their hands between takes with a plug-in heater.
to start downloading tracks.
