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Liquid Buick is the nom de plume of an LA-based singer/songwriter who performs solo and with his band Howl.BIO: I was born on the darkest day of the year—the location has never been revealed to me.My grandfather was a flame and flesh preacher who took no consort with jocularity or worldly muse. My father was following in his father’s footsteps until he spied some strange colored lights moving in a long-ago night’s sky. Seeking a host of angels, he followed. What he found instead, was the tawdry world of a traveling carnival.Nearly a year later, the carnival returned to my father’s town and he was presented with a surprise: me. My mother was the carnival’s tattooed lady. My father proposed but she disappeared in a gust of prairie wind and a puff of sawdust and cigar smoke. My grandfather disowned his only child. I grew up in a cold place, under a pall of shame. My essence still bears the scars of that scandal.The Northern Plains are flat and exposed, an aura of austerity sweeps across them like a scourge. I was resented throughout my youth--by both my father and those around me.At 15 I ran away.I had nothing and knew nothing. I fell in and tumbled along with a traveling carnival and set out upon an Odyssey to find my mother. Along the way I listened and learned. I heard a canon of personal stories--some horrifying, some humorous. I studied the teller’s use of language—or lack-there-of. I realized that language could not be defined merely as words, but by the manipulation and omission of them.I was taught guitar by one of the carnival’s attractions, a man who’d been born with no legs—just two duck-like feet—and was known as “The Human Penguin.†He was a bitter soul who spent monotonous hours wringing onomatopoeic blues tirades from the neck of his mail-order guitar. They were songs of isolation and angst--plucked by shaky fingers, sticky with bourbon residue.I never found my mother, but I found out of her fate. She died in prison after killing a man in a bar fight.Anyway, I don’t believe in anything. If I do believe in anything, it’s the muse. It’s like a lost man in the desert--all he can believe in is finding water.Being tethered to the muse has led me in some strange directions, but that’s baggage you don’t need to know about. At this point, all I have to offer you is a short 4-track demo I recorded in my apartment. Check it out. If you like it, great. If you don’t, there’s always Creed, Bon Jovi, and a host of other vacant swill to feed your ears with.Thanks for listening.
