CLICK HERE for a link to purchase access to Minton’s newest album. Upon purchasing, you will receive an email within 24 hours from email@example.com with a password granting you access to the page “Advanced Album Access.” The album will be available for both streaming and downloading!
beating against the edge of song, eh? didn’t you ever want to tear the cover off of songwriting? what stopped you? you thought if you tore the cover off of it, it’d tear the cover off of you. nothing stopped minton. minton writes songs that aren’t songs, poems that aren’t poems, draws the shape of herself amid grungy percussion, humid guitar, electric murmurs beyond location. there’s a wild-eyed thing in the middle of what she makes. there’s pain in what she talks about, and so at first i figured that wild-eyed thing was her characters’ pain — girls like bruises on the body of christ, whipped by bible-thumping mothers, watching their twins drown, tied to stoves. but i thought deeper about it (if you’re ever confused, think deeper, come up with a weirder answer, the world is weirder than it looks) and realized the wild-eyed thing in the middle of what minton makes is the restless life force of her. like a lot of us, especially those of us who write, the whole idea of minton’s life is taking what’s unwritten and putting words to it. when a morning rises bleakly, and no one has yet called it dead, gray, and asking for trouble, there’s a chaotic edge in the writer, something propelling them to sit at the blank page and fill it. beyond what she says and the people she lives through, the consternation in her songs is born in how the world resists being reduced to language. the world doesn’t want it. the world came before language, so language has to conform to it, not the other way around. someone said the rainbow is the result of singing, minton says. hear what i’m saying? in the morning, when you sit down to write, clear as you can, the world starts off by saying no. why? maybe the world’s as embarrassed of itself as we are of it. all writers hear that primal no, minton hears it, minton feels the prison bars of that primal no, and dissolves them with acid. the guards to that word-prison know all the usual tricks, so minton knows she’s gotta come up with something new to shift their gaze. distort their world, its singleness, tear the cover off of it. hence: i’m looking for a redhead with an underarm bush red enough to set moses on fire. come on now. take a new stance & confound the world with it. transmitted, no is converted to yes: equally primal, foundational, the inert world gains momentum & flows toward itself, the sea. i’ve got the keys to the kingdom, she says. world can’t do me no harm.
Minton Sparks fuses music, poetry, and her intoxicating gift for storytelling to paint word pictures of the rural South that put you square in the middle of the people and the places she knows like the back of her hand.
“I have seen Minton Sparks. And if she’s not the ghost child of [Flannery O’Connor] and [Hank Williams], then cotton doesn’t grow in a cotton field.”
— Rocker, Marshall Chapman