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Josh Morningstar
5 143 Fans
• 11 Spectacles à venir
11 Spectacles à venir
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Tournée de Josh Morningstar
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Commentaires des fans
Douglas
18 mai 2024
Master wordsmith, storyteller, and gold record artist, Josh Morningstar!
McKinney, TX@The Augustus
Christina
22 mars 2024
Amazing! Josh never disappoints! He is one of the most talented, brilliant song writers in the business. He is so entertaining and original. You won't regret seeing him!
Charlotte, NC@Amos' Southend
Danny
1 octobre 2023
Josh Morningstar rocked it! He's an amazing singer / songwriter. Cody Jinks joined Josh for a song also.
Dallas, TX@The Studio at the Factory
Voir plus d'avis de fans
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A propos de Josh Morningstar
Last night, the blue light reflected off of the cement in a tiny listening lounge in St. Charles, Iowa. A conformed church housed a bar in the front full of rogue townies, and a lounge in the back.
"Turn your phones off," the host of the lounge barked into the microphone. "Turn them off, sit back, and pay attention. This guy is quiet, and he's going to tell you some stories."
And my eyebrows raised when his hoarse voice breathed life into a quiet, rapt crowd. With his eyes closed, he sang songs - chunks of him offered up to a willing mass.
"I'm not a singer," he said eventually, looking down at his guitar. I leaned in to listen harder. "I'm not a guitarist. I'm a song writer."
In his songs were stories and in his stories were words pushed together that took my breath away, and in his stories were words that oozed the Blood from the Before, and in his stories were ripped edges.
I wanted to know it all. I wanted to know the names of the chunks and I wanted to inspect the hole in his chest and I wanted to know where those melodies come from and I wanted to know how he chooses the words.
I wanted to know what he has written on the scraps of paper in his wallet and I wanted to know if his handwriting changes when he knows it's a good one.
It was a listening lounge, and we were supposed to be quiet and listen, but he played a song we all knew. And we sang the words with him. We couldn't help it - not one single person.
A crooked grin formed behind the microphone and I'm fairly certain that's why he does what he does. Not for the lights. Not for the cheers. For sure not for the money.
He does it for the people that hear the story and say, "Yes. Me, too. I have been there, too."
In a town out in the middle of the cornfields of Iowa, a group of people sang the words back to him that he had written. A melody chunked out of one disaster from his life, and sewn together with a rhyme, and
maybe that's how you heal the hurt.
...
Vulnerability. Standing up on a stage when you'd rather be holding a pen.
Sure looks an awful lot like courage.
- Rebecca Cooper, Author
"Turn your phones off," the host of the lounge barked into the microphone. "Turn them off, sit back, and pay attention. This guy is quiet, and he's going to tell you some stories."
And my eyebrows raised when his hoarse voice breathed life into a quiet, rapt crowd. With his eyes closed, he sang songs - chunks of him offered up to a willing mass.
"I'm not a singer," he said eventually, looking down at his guitar. I leaned in to listen harder. "I'm not a guitarist. I'm a song writer."
In his songs were stories and in his stories were words pushed together that took my breath away, and in his stories were words that oozed the Blood from the Before, and in his stories were ripped edges.
I wanted to know it all. I wanted to know the names of the chunks and I wanted to inspect the hole in his chest and I wanted to know where those melodies come from and I wanted to know how he chooses the words.
I wanted to know what he has written on the scraps of paper in his wallet and I wanted to know if his handwriting changes when he knows it's a good one.
It was a listening lounge, and we were supposed to be quiet and listen, but he played a song we all knew. And we sang the words with him. We couldn't help it - not one single person.
A crooked grin formed behind the microphone and I'm fairly certain that's why he does what he does. Not for the lights. Not for the cheers. For sure not for the money.
He does it for the people that hear the story and say, "Yes. Me, too. I have been there, too."
In a town out in the middle of the cornfields of Iowa, a group of people sang the words back to him that he had written. A melody chunked out of one disaster from his life, and sewn together with a rhyme, and
maybe that's how you heal the hurt.
...
Vulnerability. Standing up on a stage when you'd rather be holding a pen.
Sure looks an awful lot like courage.
- Rebecca Cooper, Author
Afficher plus
Genres:
Folk Country Blues, Outlaw Country
concerts et dates de tournée
À venir
Passés
concerts près de chez vous
tous les concerts et diffusions live
Afficher plus d’événements (11)
Photos live de Josh Morningstar
Voir toutes les Photos
Tournée de Josh Morningstar
Commentaires des fans
Douglas
18 mai 2024
Master wordsmith, storyteller, and gold record artist, Josh Morningstar!
McKinney, TX@The Augustus
Christina
22 mars 2024
Amazing! Josh never disappoints! He is one of the most talented, brilliant song writers in the business. He is so entertaining and original. You won't regret seeing him!
Charlotte, NC@Amos' Southend
Danny
1 octobre 2023
Josh Morningstar rocked it! He's an amazing singer / songwriter. Cody Jinks joined Josh for a song also.
Dallas, TX@The Studio at the Factory
Voir plus d'avis de fans
A propos de Josh Morningstar
Last night, the blue light reflected off of the cement in a tiny listening lounge in St. Charles, Iowa. A conformed church housed a bar in the front full of rogue townies, and a lounge in the back.
"Turn your phones off," the host of the lounge barked into the microphone. "Turn them off, sit back, and pay attention. This guy is quiet, and he's going to tell you some stories."
And my eyebrows raised when his hoarse voice breathed life into a quiet, rapt crowd. With his eyes closed, he sang songs - chunks of him offered up to a willing mass.
"I'm not a singer," he said eventually, looking down at his guitar. I leaned in to listen harder. "I'm not a guitarist. I'm a song writer."
In his songs were stories and in his stories were words pushed together that took my breath away, and in his stories were words that oozed the Blood from the Before, and in his stories were ripped edges.
I wanted to know it all. I wanted to know the names of the chunks and I wanted to inspect the hole in his chest and I wanted to know where those melodies come from and I wanted to know how he chooses the words.
I wanted to know what he has written on the scraps of paper in his wallet and I wanted to know if his handwriting changes when he knows it's a good one.
It was a listening lounge, and we were supposed to be quiet and listen, but he played a song we all knew. And we sang the words with him. We couldn't help it - not one single person.
A crooked grin formed behind the microphone and I'm fairly certain that's why he does what he does. Not for the lights. Not for the cheers. For sure not for the money.
He does it for the people that hear the story and say, "Yes. Me, too. I have been there, too."
In a town out in the middle of the cornfields of Iowa, a group of people sang the words back to him that he had written. A melody chunked out of one disaster from his life, and sewn together with a rhyme, and
maybe that's how you heal the hurt.
...
Vulnerability. Standing up on a stage when you'd rather be holding a pen.
Sure looks an awful lot like courage.
- Rebecca Cooper, Author
"Turn your phones off," the host of the lounge barked into the microphone. "Turn them off, sit back, and pay attention. This guy is quiet, and he's going to tell you some stories."
And my eyebrows raised when his hoarse voice breathed life into a quiet, rapt crowd. With his eyes closed, he sang songs - chunks of him offered up to a willing mass.
"I'm not a singer," he said eventually, looking down at his guitar. I leaned in to listen harder. "I'm not a guitarist. I'm a song writer."
In his songs were stories and in his stories were words pushed together that took my breath away, and in his stories were words that oozed the Blood from the Before, and in his stories were ripped edges.
I wanted to know it all. I wanted to know the names of the chunks and I wanted to inspect the hole in his chest and I wanted to know where those melodies come from and I wanted to know how he chooses the words.
I wanted to know what he has written on the scraps of paper in his wallet and I wanted to know if his handwriting changes when he knows it's a good one.
It was a listening lounge, and we were supposed to be quiet and listen, but he played a song we all knew. And we sang the words with him. We couldn't help it - not one single person.
A crooked grin formed behind the microphone and I'm fairly certain that's why he does what he does. Not for the lights. Not for the cheers. For sure not for the money.
He does it for the people that hear the story and say, "Yes. Me, too. I have been there, too."
In a town out in the middle of the cornfields of Iowa, a group of people sang the words back to him that he had written. A melody chunked out of one disaster from his life, and sewn together with a rhyme, and
maybe that's how you heal the hurt.
...
Vulnerability. Standing up on a stage when you'd rather be holding a pen.
Sure looks an awful lot like courage.
- Rebecca Cooper, Author
Afficher plus
Genres:
Folk Country Blues, Outlaw Country
Les fans suivent aussi
Ward Davis
83K Fans
S'abonner
Sturgill Simpson
661K Fans
S'abonner
Alex Williams
14K Fans
S'abonner
Whiskey Myers
839K Fans
S'abonner
Whitey Morgan…
225K Fans
S'abonner
Cody Jinks
886K Fans
S'abonner
Colter Wall
349K Fans
S'abonner
Tyler Childers
899K Fans
S'abonner
Tennessee Jet
7K Fans
S'abonner
Paul Cauthen
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S'abonner
The Steel Woods
57K Fans
S'abonner
Brent Cobb
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S'abonner
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