Scott H. Biram - I can't find the words, but I'll try

My Brother was in town last week and wanted to see a little live music. After peeling through the local weirdo paper and looking around online, we didn't run across much of anything worth venturing out to see. This was on Monday.

While out for a beer on Tuesday night down in old Ballard - my drink your face off maritime neighborhood - we walked past the Tractor Tavern, a local bar that features alternative country and blues acts. There staring back at us from the window flyer was something that caught my eye:

Wednesday, November 16: Scott H. Biram

The Brother and I agreed to go check him out on Wednesday evening, and fuck man!

I've seen a thing or two, but I've never seen anything like what that man did for two hours. Dirty old delta blues, hellfire and brimstone rock and roll, tear-jerking ballads, outlaw country on coke, yodeling, and a few other types of music that I don't even know how to describe. Someone called him the white trash Robert Johnson, and that's quite simply as well as it can be said. He's the consumate story teller by way of music.

He beat the all-living bejeezuz out of that old Gibson guitar, nearly stomped a hole in the stage floor, somehow sang three parts simultaneously in a single song, laid down some Muddy Waters that was so ass-shakin' the floor almost broke free of its nails from the whole bar dancing, and left everything you could leave on that stage.

After a bit of reading, I understand why Biram can do what he does. The man plays nearly 250 shows per year, and that unto itself - completely outside of my half-cocked words - is reason enough to go see him practice his art.