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Born in the steamy recesses of north Florida, raised on the mocha colored banks of the St. Johns River, by a couple of northern migrants from Ebbets Field, Will Pearsall seems to sweat the word "dichotomy".
Swampy yet sophisticated, easy going yet wired with intensity, his music ranges from machine gun fire to molasses. His deep resonant voice envelopes the listener with lyrics that easily pass through the porous borders of literalism, all the while holding tight to their emotional umbilical. Not unlike that of a Michael Hedges, nor that of a Chris Whitley, his attack of the guitar creates a swelling tide that ebbs and flows.
In his songs there are dark, sweltering nights of mystery, the ghosts of a gulf-side hotel, howls of freedom, the subliminal heat of brewing lust. All are conveyed in the most simple and direct manner…voice, guitar and stomp board…no toys, gadgets or trinkets involved. As real as the thick evening air on the banks of that murky river.