Whitney Elixabeth

Whitney Elixabeth

 Spring, Texas, USA

I write folk songs. I write mythologies. I make up characters like Gabriel Jones who took the Queen of Spades into the Everglades. I sing about Greek Gods, about Paul Bunyan. I like to tell stories about my family with metaphor and rhyme. I write of lighthouses, birds, astronauts, sin.


Some say of Whitney Elixabeth that she alone bore witness to the assembly of our cosmos, that she and none more beheld the placement of burning alabaster stars and planets upon the nothing-blanket of space. Some whisper to awed, frightened children that Whitney Elixabeth is the conductor and orchestrator of all things good and terrible in the world – she awakens the morningtime birds and whistles to them inspiriting melodies, she curates metropolitan museums in which cursed and forbidden artifacts of the profane ancient times we have forcedly forgotten are housed, she lances sunlight rays through black tornado clouds during hopeless twilights, she churns the immeasurable cauldron of magma at Earth’s core to insure that volcanic upchuck is especially hot, she humbly returns fond memories to those who have lost them to trauma or to age or to an asymptomatic withering of the will. Still some hypothesize Whitney Elixabeth to be an immortal and elemental thing sewn skillfully into a body of youthful appearance, and that, if one looks closely, stitches are visible along the inner creases of her arms; should these sutures rupture, and when they do, another great age of transfiguration will wrest the Earth and it shall be recast in the architectural terrain she so chooses.

Others maintain Whitney Elixabeth’s human-ness, and written testimonies exist by those who claim to have seen her on separate occasions laugh, eat, cry, sneeze, and bleed; of the authors of these testimonies, all have vanished shortly after the drying of their inked signatures, all of their whereabouts are unknown. Excerpts from the aforementioned writings, when combined, roughly outline a mortal life of itinerant wanderings absent of any clear lineage, point of departure, or intended destination. Her exact age is undetermined, her height varies grotesquely from observer to observer, her dental records have never been found, and her political leanings remain unrevealed. The make and brand of her guitar are likewise mysterious, though it is widely believed that its body is hewn from the petrified wood of Noah’s Ark and that its strings (so luminous and resonant) are in fact indestructible strands of Samson’s hair so fine that they are only visible when strummed and vibrating. Whitney Elixabeth is said to have followed the degenerating spine of American railroad, up and down, for two decades in the least, espied by passing hobos and often mistaken for illusion or specter, stopping only to feed animals downed by bullet or motor and sing to those worldbeaten men and women weary for elevation.

If conjecture is to be believed, Whitney Elixabeth presently roams the steamy recesses of the Texas landscape, guitar and banjo crisscrossing her shoulders, harmonica clasped betwixt her razor teeth, visions of mythology forever in her thoughts, spooling unceasingly like film in a derelict drive-in projector. Whether blossoms or pestilence grows in her footsteps is unconfirmed. --Nathan Baran

Joe Constantine
Booking Agent
Cardboard Box Music
Austin, TX 78752


I'm Leaving My Mama's House

Written By: Whitney Elizabeth

Overhead the lightning is a lonesome streak
Of fireflies so hungry for their mountain peak.
How the rock and trees would split apart so clean
If only we could have the power to blast them free.

I’m leaving my mama’s home.
I’m walking away from my father’s storm.

When just a little kid I was taught so well
To feed and breed my babies in the same corral.
How their little inside clocks would stall and fail.
So often falling just beside the garbage pail.

I’m leaving my mama’s thundercloud.
I’m roping the calves from the slaughterhouse.

In my bones I’ve conjured up a bit too much hate
For the God fearing who’re speedy to predict each other’s fates.
Back I want to turn each lonely hour I’ve lost
Disguising myself as a puffed up albatross.

I’m trying to sing across the stratosphere.
I’m planting the bulbs for the mischief-makers.

I’m crossing into Texas from New Mexico.
I’m coming with my turquoise ring and jar of snow.
How the rock and trees have split apart for me.
How my newfound love is here to strengthen me.

We’re duping the world’s greatest private eye.
We’re sending south those dirty Magpies.
I’m leaving my mother’s house.
I’m traveling to another battleground.

Taylor Michelle

Written By: Whitney Elixabeth

Little sister your eyes are bold
Green as leaves on marigolds
I’m sorry that your day’s been bad
I want to give you all I have

Taylor Michelle

From your window you’re keen as a spy
You know when the earth got a big black eye
“The sailor’s shirts are black” you shout.
“The geniuses are strewn about!”

Taylor Michelle
Taylor Michelle

I was the bat and you were the eagle
Blind were my eyes to all of the blue bells
But you
showed me
What I
Fields of
Corn and
love like

Little weary seraphim
The angry spiders are piling in
Shapeshifting from boy to man
Hitchhiking from land to land

Taylor Michelle

Remember when you’d sing with me
Your pretty voice so bright and free
I know your life’s a little off
But your heart out does those robots

Taylor Michelle
Taylor Michelle

I was the baker you were the genie
Bread for the hungry
And wishes for every
Lonely one
Out of luck

In your room, your curtain blue
You paint a girl she looks like you
Gathering some apricots
Carrying your red teapot

Taylor Michelle

In your apron are oats and words
You feed the chickens you calm the herds
You’re wiser than you think my dear
The last one in your hemisphere

Taylor Michelle
Taylor Michelle

I am the wheel and you are chariot
Nightfall around us, ignoring the gunshots
Like a weightless
Your hand comes down on mine
Whit you say
We will defeat them
Or my dear we’ll die

Little sister your eyes are bold
Green as leaves on Marigolds
The moon is trying to compete
The starlight in his hands is beat

Taylor Michelle
I Hope you are well

Heavy Wind

Written By: Whitney Elixabeth

When the storm hit the island.
The government told the people to get underground.
The men looked at the women,
Their hair looked beautiful in the heavy wind.
They decided, they decided to leave the shelter.

They knew that they were going to die.
All they wanted was to be in the light.
In the light.

Darling will you take me from this city?
Will you help me, will you help me in my disappearing?
Will you open the curtains and let the air in?
When you kiss me, will I believe that you’re the wind,
That you’re the heavy wind?

Sometimes I feel like I’m alive.
Sometimes I know that I’m alive.
By your side.


Several self released EPs.

Set List

Set List
Leaving my mama’s house—electric guitar
Floods flashing their signs—electric guitar
Other than blue—banjo
Taylor Michelle--banjo
Noah’s Wife—acoustic guitar
The Fall of Paul Bunyan—acoustic guitar
How Could You be So Unkind?—acoustic guitar
Took all the Money—acoustic guitar

Covers, if any, are Bob Dylan songs. Nico, Neutral Milk Hotel, Ryan Adams, are other artists whose songs I've done.