SCOTT H. BIRAM
Scott H. Biram unleashes a fervent display of conviction through, not only the genuine blues, classic country, bluegrass, and rock n roll, but he seals the deal with punk, heavy metal, and frankly, anything else he wants to. He’s The Dirty Old One Man Band.
He will still the room with haunting South Texas blues, then turn it upside down, into a truck driver’s mosh pit. Like he says, it might be baptism, or it might be murder, either way…you gonna see the light.
This legally ordained preacher’s singing, yodeling, growling, leering and brash preachin’ and hollerin’ is accompanied by sloppy riffs, and licks literally yanked, one at a time, out of his collection of crusty, worn out, Gibson hollowbody guitars, and battle axes. All this held down with a pounding backbeat brought forth by his amplified left foot, and self customed stomp board. The remainder of this brutally charming one-man band consists of an unwieldy combination of beat-up amplifiers and old microphones strung together by a tangled mess of guitar cables. Don’t get too close! You gonna get some grease on ya!
Years of compulsive touring, along with a steady diet of down and dirty blues, rock, punk, country, and hillbilly have developed Scott H. Biram’s signature concoction, attracting a hefty array of fans who dig the bizarre and twisted sides of the rock and roll spectrum. His live shows, performed all over the world, deliver a take no prisoners attitude, a stomping, pulsing John Lee Hooker-channeling, and cockeyed tales of black water baptisms and murder, all while romanticizing the on-the-road lifestyle. SCOTT H. BIRAM IS THE DIRTY OLD ONE MAN BAND. ©1974
LARRY AND HIS FLASK
Musical anthropologists interested in the study of just how fast a band can evolve need look no further than the six upright, upstanding men in Oregon’s Larry and His Flask.
Formed by brothers Jamin and Jesse Marshall in 2003, the Flask (as the band’s expanding army of fans calls them) spent its first half-decade stuck in a primordial, punk-rock goop, where a blood-sweat-and-beers live show took priority over things like notes and melodies. Don’t misunderstand: The band was (somewhat) skilled and an absolute joy to watch, but the goal was always the party over perfection.
Over the past two years, however, Larry and His Flask has gone from crawl to sprint at breakneck speed. First, Jamin Marshall moved from gargling-nails vocals to drums. Guitarist Ian Cook became the band’s primary voice. And a trio of talented pickers and singers — Dallin Bulkley (guitars), Kirk Skatvold (mandolin) and Andrew Carew (banjo) — joined the family. (And no, you didn’t miss something. No one is named Larry.)
Determined to make music for a living or die trying, the six brothers set out in a van, intent on playing for anyone, anywhere at any time. From coffee shops to dive bars and street corners to theater stages, the Flask honed their sound and show through experience, attacking each gig like buskers who must grab and hold the attention of passersby in hopes of collecting enough change to get to the next town.
By 2009, Larry and His Flask’s train began gaining steam. The band’s new songs are a blurry blend of lightning fast string-band picking, gorgeous nods to old-school country, and sublime multi-part harmonies, all presented through a prism of punk chaos. The boys have grown and changed, yes, but their shows are still gloriously physical displays of live music’s sheer power. In other words, keep your eyes peeled, or risk taking the heavy end of Jesse Marshall’s flailing, stand-up bass right between the eyes.
A slot supporting the Dropkick Murphys in the Flask’s hometown led to an invitation to open for the Celtic punk kingpins across the eastern half of the United States, as well as an opportunity to finally record their new, twangier sound. The result is Larry and His Flask’s three-song, self-titled 7″ record, pressed in a limited run that’s quickly being snapped up by the band’s new fans, who’ve been clamoring for a sip of aural hooch to call their own.
In mid-2010, the Flask is holed up in their crash pad in Central Oregon, working on songs for their first full-length, playing gigs here and there, and, in the words of Jesse Marshall, “fixing the van and all our broken shit” in anticipation of the next leg of a lifelong tour.
WHISKEY SHIVERS
Hatched in the twilight months of ought nine, these five young men came from all corners of the US looking to do one thing: knock the dust off roots music.
A freewheelin’, trashgrassin’, folk tornado, the Whiskey Shivers take traditional instrumentation, soak it in gasoline and send it into outer space. Breakneck speeds, killer grooves and impeccable musicianship: it’s enough to make Bill Monroe himself do a double-take as he spins in his grave.
With upright bass, fiddle, washboard, banjo, guitar, and reasonably priced merchandise, Whiskey Shivers adds a fine layer of grit on top of the hard-driving rhythms of traditional bluegrass. They’ve been called everything from “trashgrass” to “hardcore roots” to “crazy-assed redneck music” — whatever the words, the meaning is the same: Whiskey Shivers brings the house down.