Sometime in the early 1980s, Gregory Rawlins tumbled out of an old growth Douglas Fir, draped in moss and ancient beach detritus.
A natural born forager, he began to collect abandoned and discarded trinkets to assist in his aimless pilgrimage to the promised land. As it turns out, the creation of music and words would prove to serve as his greatest guiding light, and, after twenty years of composition and nearly as many albums (spanning genres of rock, folk, blues, and experimental in bands Sons of Guns, Catskills, and Foxgloves), he has, at long last, returned to the very trunk of his origins. There his offerings disperse and take root among the abundant quietude of the rainforest. To behold his solo performance is to stare into a still mountain lake and fall slowly forward.