Scott H. Biram. . . . . will whip his own weight in wild-cats.
Step up right now, folks– watch the tent-act with toothy gouts of “Beetlejuice” drippin’ right down his chin like beer gravy and chicken blood. . . . . the green feed-store cap and mean blue-jeans “right off the street” as he glares through the smoky darkness of juke joints and concert halls and taverns like red brick loam and the smell of beer suds.
Like grit in your craw, jerkin’ a knot in the devil’s tail and snarling like a rabid shit-dog drove through a thresher. . . . . sawed-bone and green biting flies for prairie Texas sugar-land gothic and a whole lot of American roots.
His skilled fingers slide over the nylon guitar strings– like that rough edge that digs into your ribs, a stomp-pedal keepin’ rhythm as he sits on the amplifier over the smell of frying meat and mean-grilled BBQ.
Working man’s music, like that wind howling over mile after mile of interstate truck-drivers, a sandpaper clutter that wails it’s troubles from the very bottom of the world like you were staked to an ant hill and dunked in Tabasco sauce.
Scott H. Biram. . . . . one man tornado.
Once, I showed-up in a zany black Beetlejuice t-shirt, a perfect riff on hoppin’ low-down human behavior. And there, as “the ghost with the most” oggled you upon white press-on plastic, arms extended like a carny or Grand ole’ Oprey comedian. Corn liquor for your troubles or a slurred swallow of “Beetlejuice” like chewing tobacco.
He “got” the reference.
“Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!”
Part of this man IS Beetlejuice. And he tied-on a wild one, that night down by the river.
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