Bake West has seen the glory of the gone world and the Lord. He has seen through the
graveyard eyes and tattered cloths of saints. Here is a testimony of surviving souls and haloed dreams.
He's not asking for a sword. He's just making sense and sound to fill the mortal void.
He's not looking for a hero. He just wants you to believe, interpreting the scene through a true and tragic sound.
With a hand in Jersey witchcraft and a hand in bathtub gin, he peels his guitar poems
from broken dreams and bottles, to build a house complete.
Immersed in roots of rockabilly and blues, he
plants his seeds and sows his sounds in black-light perfumed dreams.