THE REVIEW
Here it is. True, I tend to be excessively indulgent towards this man's products: both for the empathetic impulse towards a greatly underrated and challenging guy, due to an apparently sharp character, and for the staunch will to survive in music, walking the tightrope of the system. Self-produced records, self-recorded around the world for millions of guitar & footstomp evenings: writing
songs distilled directly from internal organs, with the metal guitar becoming a sort of extension of the digestive tract. Another small record this is, which reminds me a lot of
"Dirt Floor" - another small masterpiece - recorded live on minidisc and then brought here: 16 fragments taken from his now vast field of songs, pages of minimal diaries, coffee pots, and TVs left on to project the sole glow of static.
For those who have in mind to find the raw nerve again, the essence of blues reinterpreted by a white man not inclined to succumb to the rules: stripped bare, skinned, rendered like graffiti on abandoned train cars on dead tracks, in the days of asbestos reclamation. For those who want truth. For those who still believe in six blatantly imperfect strings. So little tempered, struck with the fury and love of a lover betrayed the second - or third time - this is the way, truth, and life.