Trent Miller & The Skeleton Jive

Sleazy, self obsessed and ego driven, resident sociopath Trent Miller is the self proclaimed God of Gothic Country and Prophet of the Country Revolution, notorious for his 'Jesus-in-the-temple' attitude towards the fake plastic pop idols that these days are nailing the coffin of rock'n roll and his insane passion for cute waitresses. Despite being one of the most talented songwriters of his generation, Trent's career has been crippled by a serious drinking problem and his total lack of human empathy. After two years spent making enemies in London's underground music scene, Trent is currently promoting his double album 'Cerberus' in the few venues that still haven't banned him from playing because of his herratic behaviour. He is also trying to overcome his fear of soft drinks and grow moustache (A. Margera) //'LIKE ROY ACUFF ONCE SAID TO HANK WILLIAMS, YOU'VE GOT A MILLION DOLLAR VOICE, SON, BUT A TEN CENTS BRAIN. WELL... FIVE CENTS ACTUALLY' (A promoter) // 'YOUR MUSIC MAKES ME WANT TO SLASH MY WRISTS AND BLEED TO DEATH' (An old drunken Englishman at Berties Bar - Wimbledon) // 'I HOPE THAT YOU DIE AND YOUR DEATH WILL COME SOON' (Ex girlfriend, I wondered is she quoted Mr Zimmerman by purpose) //MOON BOG PARTY (directed by Francesco Cusanno) //'Roman Troubadour Trent Miller has been described as the Pete Doherty of Avant-Gothic Country. However with his wistful acid-bite lyrics, mournful, chilling melodies and outlaw, renegade posture we think a more suitable comparison might be to that of Gram Parsons or Gene Clark. Showcasing his superb new album this self proclaimed foot soldier in 'The Post-Country Revolution' will take no prisoners in his war on mediocrity and the banality of evil.... 'Man the barricades 'cos this machine kills!' (MARTYN BONANZA/Dj & promoter) //LITTLE QUEEN OF HEARTS (directed by Francesco Cusanno) //'I first encountered Trent Miller at an open mic in Camden. I thought he was insane. No, really. I thought he was as mad as a jar of snakes. I thought he was Portuguese and I couldn’t hear a word he was singing and was convinced that he was singing in a hybrid of Portuguese and English. I heard him say to someone that he’d just arrived in town "to get a deal". I grinned. The second time I saw Trent I realised he was actually Italian and he was singing in English. Drink-fueled and harmonica clad, he was a revelation. And just like the first time around, I slowly realised, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. You see, as a performer, I ain’t never really seen anything like Trent Miller. Just imagine an Italian dandy with earrings that wouldn’t look out of place on Sitting Bull’s daughter singing country songs about graveyards, empty bottles, and a steel rail heading straight for a hell and you might just catch of glimpse of this guy. With a brakeman’s hat and a voice pitched somewhere between Gene Clark and Johnny Cash, he’s like a fucking child when he plays. By that I mean only a child could possibly have the purity to be having that much fun. I’ve seen him sober twice. Both occasions were gone inside ten minutes. His set is broken up with rants and effeminate hand gestures about "indie kids", "skinny jeans" and "the country revolution". The only thing that can rival his obsession with Hank Williams is his obsession with girls. He flicks away at his guitar with fingers that are so gangly that it can’t strictly be described as a strum and yet couldn’t be explained away as a picking style any self-respecting guitarist (I exclude myself from this company as I’m happily sat down in the basement with the other hackers and barbarians) would admit to. Yet the sound he evokes is startling. His phrasing is so rich it’s like Leadbelly’s ghost just walked in through the door and declared that the bullshit is over' (GREG REESIAK) //