Three or four years ago I heard an old man sing a song about home brew so powerful that one bottle fell over an blew a hole in the ground so big that when it filled with water it became Moosehead Lake.

I did record him, very imperfectly, in a camp setting. I tried to transcribe it later but he had been half drunk at the time and was missing most of his front teeth. The resultant mish mash was barely understandable as human speech.

I never got back to that man and last month my father told me he had died over the winter.