On first impression, Dave Onions comes off as a thick-fingered, truck-driving man.It wouldn’t be hard to picture him barreling down I-80, Messiah of the Highway,screaming down on slower traffic. An elbow to the breeze, his long hair wavingwildly, cigarette dangling out from behind a casual smile, smoke mingling with thewisps of his Fu-Manchu. After learning of his past work-experiences it’s eveneasier to imagine this scene. He has tended bar and worked in the building trades.He even did a stint as a cop. Above all these things though, Onions is songwriterattempting to usher in a new era of folk music. Dave Onions is Bluebird.Or maybe Bluebird is Dave Onions. There is a certain amount of autonomy betweenthe two. Bluebird is the same person whether it be on stage in front of a crowd orperched on a bar stool in some shit-hole tavern. I was taken a back when I enteredthe bar that Bluebird told me to meet him at. The dim lighting reflecting off thepolished mahogany of the bar. The chic exposed-brick of the walls. Sullen, aginghipsters posing generically at their stools. The practiced and well-wornexpression of boredom on their faces. I was even more perplexed when I was toldthey didn’t serve High Life, which I wrongly assumed had over taken PBR as the newhipster beer. This was not exactly the kind of place one would expect to find ablue-collar songwriter. Yet, when I found Bluebird at the end of the bar he washunkered over a thick stew and the remnants of a Bloody Mary. Before I couldfinish my greeting he was offering me some of his meal. It finally started makingsense; he simply doesn’t give a damn. Bluebird is at home anywhere he goes. It isthis characteristic that separates Bluebird from his contemporaries. There is nobullshit. He is not playing a part. The same working class attitude he lives hislife with forms the pillars of his music. Sonically it is hard to label Bluebird inany specific genre. They are neither intentional love songs nor intentionaldrinking songs. They are simply Bluebird. Lines about salvation mingle freely withverses concerning bouts of drinking and drug use. All with unforced honesty, songsare free to breath and meander as if they were a living entity onto themselves. “I’m not one to sit down and write a song, they come to me as I’m driving in my pickup or drinking out at the bar,†Bluebird explains. “I definitely feed off mysurroundings. I give more credit to the people around me, they really write thesongs.†It is easy to believe this after meeting him. It is just the way Bluebirdis. Nothing is assumed or faked. Nothing is held back or censored. Standingoutside, Bluebird hits his Pall Mall and smirks as a couple leaves the bar. Thewoman leans drunkenly onto her boyfriend, who is supporting her up. As they hitthe cross walk five-feet away, Bluebird tells me how he noticed them at the bar andwas confused on why such an attractive woman would be with such a frumpy lookingguy. “I get it now though; she’s probably always totally annihilated like that.The kind of girl that is already black-out drunk when her friends pick her up to goout. “That’s the kind of women I need, that way she won’t remember how bad thesex was the night before,†he says with a laugh.
Bio by SPH3