My first attempt at country music video with generative ai. Meh… It’s just so time consuming and you don’t quite get what you’re looking for but more likely my prompting is just trash. So say your piece, I’m not too impressed myself and exhausted! To be fair, my video editing skills are a week old and I’m semi juggling everything life tends to throw our way. Any case, it was fun I hope you enjoy it.
If you like the music please share & subscribe, thanks!
https://youtu.be/ylIhoU22ulo
https://www.youtube.com/@theartificialhomewreckers
https://soundcloud.com/theartificialhomewreckers
https://open.spotify.com/artist/0TuHLZaDhxt6bLGZGKukJ7
https://music.apple.com/us/artist/the-artificial-home-wreckers/1787896253
https://theartificialhomewreckers.bandcamp.com/
https://theartificialhomewreckers.com/
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
Rolled in wearin’ boots that seen better days,
Denim torn like the roads I blaze
Old V-twin hummin’ gospel blues,
Gravel kicks up like Sunday news.
Shame in a flask of black-label rye,
Parked by the steeple, let a sinner try.
[Chorus ]
I’m layin’ chrome at the chapel gate,
Hands on the tank, beggin’ Heaven to wait.
Ain’t got silver, silk, or luck—
Just a busted heart and an empty truck.
Let the whiskey be the wafer, the weight be the wine;
If I pour it in the dust, redraw my line.
Pull me back from that moonlit flood—
Here I stand, red-clay and blood.
[Verse 2]
Most folks whisper when they talk my name,
Bar-room legend with a lonesome flame.
Bottle’s been my barn-dance friend,
Two-step devil with a crooked grin.
Tried quittin’ cold, but the cold got warm,
Now I’m knockin’ where the prayers are born.
[Chorus ]
I’m layin’ chrome at the chapel gate,
Hands on the tank, beggin’ Heaven to wait.
Ain’t got silver, silk, or luck—
Just a busted heart and an empty truck.
Let the whiskey be the wafer, the weight be the wine;
If I pour it in the dust, redraw my line.
Pull me back from that moonlit flood—
Here I stand, red-clay and blood.
[Bridge]
Dust on the hymnbook, tear on the page,
Fiddle cries soft like a front-porch sage.
If mercy’s a river, let it rise and run,
Wash this outlaw ’til the battle’s won.
[Chorus ]
I’m layin’ chrome at the chapel gate,
Hands on the tank, beggin’ Heaven to wait.
Ain’t got silver, silk, or luck—
Just a busted heart and an empty truck.
Let the whiskey be the wafer, the weight be the wine;
If I pour it in the dust, redraw my line.
Pull me back from that moonlit flood—
Here I stand, red-clay and blood.
Story
They say the night still smells like gasoline an’ cheap rye down at Sparrow Fork, right where the black-top spits ya straight into Pine-Needle County. That stretch of road’s darn near a legend ’round here, ’cause that’s where Boone “Chrome” McCafferty finally slammed the kickstand on his shovelhead Harley and dragged his sorry hide up to St. Brigid’s chapel—chrome so bright the sunrise bounced off it like wildfire.
Boone weren’t no choirboy, not by a dang mile. Folks knew him as a bar-room wolf with a busted grin, packin’ more warrants than church stamps. He’d spent twenty-odd years swappin’ prayers for poker chips, so when the jukebox quit singin’ and his best friend Jack Daniels started talkin’ back, Boone figured the devil done called in the tab.
But it’s funny how a song gets stuck in your craw. One night, him half lit on barrel-strength hope, that new country track—“Chrome at the Chapel Gate”—come blastin’ through a dented ’78 pickup outside. The hook punched him square: I’m layin’ chrome at the chapel gate, hands on the tank, beggin’ Heaven to wait. Boone chuckled first, then felt it claw at his gut. Turns out a melody can feel like a barrel to the chest when it’s pointin’ at the truth.
So he lit out before dawn, ridin’ south through whippin’ wind and thunder so big it sounded like God cockin’ a twelve-gauge. No saddlebags, no map—just a half-dry flask and a story itchin’ to change its endin’.
By sunrise, his tires rolled over the white gravel lane headin’ to St. Brigid’s—the old clapboard chapel that sits crooked on a hill like a tired mother. Boone killed the engine. The hush felt heavier’n iron. Cicadas hissed. A lone crow razzed him from a cross-beam. He figured Heaven sent hecklers, ’cause saints don’t waste sarcasm on fools.
“Aw hell,” he muttered, pocketin’ his smoke ’fore he stomped up the steps. The chapel door squealed like it knew his rap sheet. Dust motes danced in the stained-glass glow, baptizin’ him cheap and lazy. Ain’t nobody inside ‘cept Father Doyle’s straw hat thrown across a pew, so Boone walked that aisle slow—chrome studs glintin’, spurs tickin’ time like a death watch.
Near the altar squatted a scabby wooden rail built for kneelin’ saints, not whiskey-bitten outlaws. Boone set the half-empty flask on it like a dare. “Reckon this here’s all I got left worth layin’ down,” he whispered. The liquor caught a shaft of light, looked almost holy, which cracked him up an’ wrecked him both at once.
He bent, elbows creakin’ like rusted hinges, palms flat on the rail. In his head the track’s chorus fired again: Let the whiskey be the wafer, the weight be the wine. So he unscrewed the cap, poured rye slow till the wood sucked it greedy. Smell of booze and communion mixed, weird as sin and grace holdin’ hands.
“Look, Big Man,” Boone said, voice scratchin’ against the hush, “I ain’t got silver or luck. I got a busted heart an’ a truck that won’t downshift no more. But I’m tired of drinkin’ ghosts, tired of countin’ burned bridges like trophies. If You’re there, haul me outta this moonlit flood ’fore I drown in it, yeah?”
Far as he knew, heaven ain’t big on shootin’ back replies. But the sun leaned through the western window, paintin’ Boone gold from boots to brow. And something inside him—maybe the hangover, maybe the hymn in that song—clicked loose like a chamber emptyin’. He felt lighter, like somebody yanked the reverb off his regrets.
Couple minutes later, Father Doyle waddled in, puffin’ dust, suspenders squeakin’. “Mercy me, Boone McCafferty. Thought the roof’d cave if you ever darkened my door.”
Boone grinned sideways. “Roof’s still up, Padre. But my liver’s retired.”
Father eyed the soaked rail, whistled. “Won’t be cheap replacin’ that varnish.”
“Call it tithin’,” Boone shrugged. “I owe back pay.”
The priest saw the Harley outside, chrome flashin’ like new money. “You ridin’ that thing to redemption?”
“Figured steel horses deserve salvation too.”
Father Doyle chuckled, slapped Boone’s shoulder. “Then best start by scrubbin’ last night’s sins off them steps. Got a bucket an’ a scrub brush.”
“Aw, c’mon—manual labor on day one?” Boone groused, but he grabbed the bucket anyhow. “Guess grace don’t run on store credit.”
“Never did,” Doyle winked.
So Boone spent the mornin’ scourin’ chapel steps, every scrape echoin’ in his bones. And crazy thing? He ain’t reached for that flask once. Said later the scrub water smelled sweeter than rye—miracle or placebo, nobody cared.
Weeks rolled, and folks drivin’ past the chapel saw that chrome Harley regular, burnin’ bright in front like a stained-glass guard dog. They’d roll down the windows, track still on local radio, and swear they heard Boone whistlin’ in time—off-key, heart-strong, free as a stray bullet finally done wanderin’.
Outlaw gone half-holy, chapel rail still whiskey-stained to prove it. And if you listen close on humid July nights, wind off Sparrow Fork carries a gravelly drawl hummin’ the line that saved him: Here I stand—red-clay and blood. Ain’t pretty grammar, but salvation never much cared for commas.
