You would think, after listening to these maddeningly, stick-like-glue-to-the-brain tunes by Mr. Giaimo, that he popped out of nowhere from nowhere, a neurotic ball of nerves spitting out metaphors, melodies, harmonies and insights like a meteor with its scorching tail of cosmic dust, only to disappear again into the black of space. But you would only be half-right.
He has been around. In various cities in various bands throughout this fine land. From huge rock festivals in front of teeming multitudes to audiences as humble as the bartender and truck driver in Valdosta en route to Pittsburgh. Or you may have heard his songs blasting from both college and commercial radio stations (his former band Gymo was signed to McGathy Promotions and Magic City Records).
Last seen holed up in a kitchen in Glover Park (which he assures us is nowhere in the Taoist sense of the word), he was pounding out his instant-classic songs onto a small recorder. Others swear they saw him boarding a plane with guitar in hand to record in Charlotte where his whereabouts were reported to Homeland Security, he having suspicously curly hair.
Either way, he is bound to show up and soon, at your favorite local venue, firing the first salvos of a musical maelstorm guaranteed to shake your spine, soul and booty.
You are hereby granted permission to open your ears and receive the first transmission.
Tune in and tune up.