Down at Woodshed Music

There's a little room off a northern road. Where the rain taps time on

the window panes. Old amps hum and the kettle boils. Dreams get louder

when you strike that string. From first time chords to a steady hand.

You learn to play, you learn to stand. Every note's a

promise, every scar's a truth. You earn it all down in

that room. No shortcuts here, just heart and soul. Calloused fingers and

rock and roll. Down at Woodshed Music, we build it right.

Six strings burning in the cold night. Drums shake walls, bass runs deep.