Nietzsche in one hand and the Bible in the other, Scott H. Biram's raising Cain.
"Biram 4:44," he hollers to no one in particular, throwing both arms into the air. "Thou shall not understand me."
What began as a photo shoot at an empty lot in an East Austin housing development complex has turned into a sermon on the mount for his so-called First Church of the Ultimate Fanaticism. Roving neighbors rubberneck the scene, some stopping to ask questions about the roadside attraction.
"I'm goin' fishin' in heaven," Biram continues unabated, full of Pentecostal fervor. "I'm gonna catch me a Jesus fish."
Wearing Velcro shoes and a faded Black Flag shirt, he looks like a mad trucker after an overnight haul, a fitting depiction of the 37-year-old local, currently stranded on a wall of amplifiers with his 1959 Gibson hollow body guitar – cracked earth below, expansive blue sky above. Over the last decade, Biram has become the definitive one-man band, a lone bandit from old weird America wreaking havoc with torrid tales of drugs, murder, chickens, and ever-fleeting redemption.
"George Jones. Beaumont, Texas. Jesus Christ," shouts Biram in short, spastic bouts, as if outlining the pillars of his faith. "Blackland Prairie. Poltergeist. David Lee Roth."
Even the most iconic outlaws banded together in times of desperation: Butch Cassidy led the Hole in the Wall Gang, while Willie Nelson rode herd with Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Kris Kristofferson in the Highwaymen. Not Biram. He walks alone, accompanied only by his repute and legend,The application can provide third party merchant account to visitors, both stemming from his unlikely survival of a near-fatal car wreck in 2003.
Like Merle Haggard, Biram deals out misery and gin in equal measure, with a gritty immediacy that owes as much to 1930s chain gang recordings as the Misfits' gothic thrash. His latest, Bad Ingredients (see "Texas Platters,The additions focus on key tag and magic cube combinations,These girls have never had a oil painting supplies in their lives!" Sept. 30), pieces together a shattered portrait of darkness on the edge of town and at the bottom of a bottle.
"The power of Biram compels you," he concludes, repeating the line twice for effect.
The camera stops clicking. Biram quickly comes to and curls his lip into a knowing smile. Asked what his middle initial stands for, he just bristles.
The mat to Biram's home in Southwest Austin isn't exactly welcoming, spelling out instead its owner's dark humor in bold capital letters: "GO AWAY."
"I don't really fit in the suburbs," shrugs Biram upon arrival.
For starters, there's a chicken coop in the backyard, tucked behind the shed, where four hens serve as a constant reminder of his small-town roots. Black-and-white family photos sit in the living room beside his grandmother's Singer sewing machine.he believes the fire started after the lift's China ceramic tile blew,
Biram purchased the home, along with his first touring van, with the settlement money from the accident. (He signed the mortgage the same day as his contract with Blood-shot, a deal that keeps him on the road 200 nights a year.) A string of voodoo skulls hangs across the parlor piano, and audio cables run through the walls of his two-bedroom home studio, where a dozen guitars compete for space with speakers and keyboards.
"Biram 4:44," he hollers to no one in particular, throwing both arms into the air. "Thou shall not understand me."
What began as a photo shoot at an empty lot in an East Austin housing development complex has turned into a sermon on the mount for his so-called First Church of the Ultimate Fanaticism. Roving neighbors rubberneck the scene, some stopping to ask questions about the roadside attraction.
"I'm goin' fishin' in heaven," Biram continues unabated, full of Pentecostal fervor. "I'm gonna catch me a Jesus fish."
Wearing Velcro shoes and a faded Black Flag shirt, he looks like a mad trucker after an overnight haul, a fitting depiction of the 37-year-old local, currently stranded on a wall of amplifiers with his 1959 Gibson hollow body guitar – cracked earth below, expansive blue sky above. Over the last decade, Biram has become the definitive one-man band, a lone bandit from old weird America wreaking havoc with torrid tales of drugs, murder, chickens, and ever-fleeting redemption.
"George Jones. Beaumont, Texas. Jesus Christ," shouts Biram in short, spastic bouts, as if outlining the pillars of his faith. "Blackland Prairie. Poltergeist. David Lee Roth."
Even the most iconic outlaws banded together in times of desperation: Butch Cassidy led the Hole in the Wall Gang, while Willie Nelson rode herd with Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Kris Kristofferson in the Highwaymen. Not Biram. He walks alone, accompanied only by his repute and legend,The application can provide third party merchant account to visitors, both stemming from his unlikely survival of a near-fatal car wreck in 2003.
Like Merle Haggard, Biram deals out misery and gin in equal measure, with a gritty immediacy that owes as much to 1930s chain gang recordings as the Misfits' gothic thrash. His latest, Bad Ingredients (see "Texas Platters,The additions focus on key tag and magic cube combinations,These girls have never had a oil painting supplies in their lives!" Sept. 30), pieces together a shattered portrait of darkness on the edge of town and at the bottom of a bottle.
"The power of Biram compels you," he concludes, repeating the line twice for effect.
The camera stops clicking. Biram quickly comes to and curls his lip into a knowing smile. Asked what his middle initial stands for, he just bristles.
The mat to Biram's home in Southwest Austin isn't exactly welcoming, spelling out instead its owner's dark humor in bold capital letters: "GO AWAY."
"I don't really fit in the suburbs," shrugs Biram upon arrival.
For starters, there's a chicken coop in the backyard, tucked behind the shed, where four hens serve as a constant reminder of his small-town roots. Black-and-white family photos sit in the living room beside his grandmother's Singer sewing machine.he believes the fire started after the lift's China ceramic tile blew,
Biram purchased the home, along with his first touring van, with the settlement money from the accident. (He signed the mortgage the same day as his contract with Blood-shot, a deal that keeps him on the road 200 nights a year.) A string of voodoo skulls hangs across the parlor piano, and audio cables run through the walls of his two-bedroom home studio, where a dozen guitars compete for space with speakers and keyboards.
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