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Even when he’s at his most quiet, it doesn’t get any more real—or more loud—than Scott H Biram.
SHB maintains the blues-metal-countrypunk-rock but strengthens it with crack guitar playing and shrewdly-crafted songwriting.

Takes you back to a place where men were hot for their women, women were hot for their men, where rickety run-down back porches were alive with spirit and song, good company, and ample quantities of BBQ and booze.

Boasts the tunesmanship of The Faces and the barroom howl of The Band. The album testifies to the soul-saving grace of rock n’ roll.

Debut CD whips up a witches brew of hillbilly hellfire and blues brimstone full of the locomotive rhythms of traditional bluegrass, the intensity of Mississippi roadhouse blues, and the full-on sonic assault of Slayer.

All motorcycle boots and sneers, they rode a squall of throat-grabbing feedback and Stonesy musical middle fingers. They were as much Thunders and Reed as anything country.