Scott H. Biram

Scott H. Biram lives in the modern United States, but his songs come straight out of the old weird America.  They are full of sinners and separated lovers, dubious preachers and committed drinkers.

Just as you calibrate yourself to the Black Flag speed, Biram shifts gears and launches into one of his original tunes, which blend timeless country music with blues that are as authentic and low-down as Lightnin’ Hopkins.

He helps wash away your own demons by letting his own loose.

His blues tone is often comparable to the dense and tightly coiled attack of certain artists from Fat Possum Records’ heyday, though his penchant for tackling any chestnut that tickles his fancy at times lends him the air of a songster.

Like a scumbag Leonard Cohen

Any solo guitar-slinger can tap his foot on something noisy while strumming and singing and call himself a one-man band, but it takes a certain level of zeal and dexterity to really pull it off. Texas songwriter Scott H. Biram fits the bill with genuine fervor.

The perfect bluesman for the 21st century, Biram filters classic American roots music through metal, hardcore and plenty of whiskey, resulting in a sound as unique as it is awesome.

He has a true stage presence that could be fairly compared to that of Clint Eastwood on film. The dude's more dude than most other dudes you will ever meet.

His raucous blend of psychobilly, blues, country, metal and rock suggests and inner starvation for true expression and honesty that, frankly, should lead you to question the conviction of everyone you've ever seen set foot on a stage.

Carrying his guitar and harmonica into hell's mouth, he's going it alone in more ways than one, calling out to God but not terribly sure he's going to get an answer.

An impassioned multi-instrumentalist unleashing a brutal cacophany with the fury of someone whose check from the Devil finally cleared. Half dirty blues, half underground punk, half honky-tonk, half revival meeting... oh shut up about the math. You'll see the light.

His barbarous exorcism of Depression-era blues--with a bedrock of frantic flatpicking, foot stomps into a floor mike, and gutteral growls through a distortion mike--has made Biram a rising star in Austin.

With a raw immediacy that recalls Hasil Adkins and Bob Log III, Biram specializes in a twisted hybrid of gutbucket, hillbilly and godless metal. He'll praise the virtues of moonshine and titty bars one minute, then tongue-lash city slickers and hippies the next.

Biram plays with startling intensity: hunched in a chair, his face half-covered by the bill of his trucker cap, his head bobs wildly when he sings, and his eyes roll back in his head... [you] can't tell if he is barking commands to Saint Peter or his rival down below.

Every so often, an artist comes along, playing music that makes you stop in your tracks and say, 'Yeah, that's exactly what I needed.' Scott H. Biram is that artist.

Biram's music is country, but it's marinated in the blues, metal, punk, boogie and maybe battery acid. His tunes unspool like the terrifying, arm-flapping, sweat drenched apocalyptic visions of an insane preacher... the perfect soundtrack for driving down that lost highway at 99 miles per hour.

He helps wash away your own demons by letting his own loose.