You might ask, what kind of bizarre world does Whitman come from? You would be right to assume it's bizarre. Whitman grew up in Beaumont, California, on the edge of the Mojave, as well as in a variety of camps for problem children in places like Provo, Utah and rural Idaho. The sounds you hear; rusted, dusted and forlorn, are much like the places he's resided. While Whitman plays songs about the age old topics of love, loss and guilt he does so in a fashion all his own, with disintegrated instruments, scraps of metal trash and guitars that would have been relegate to the garbage heap by anyone else. His withered plucking sounds something like the soundtrack to your brain being fried by the blistering sun; it is both intriguing and memorable. His recordings and live performances have been added to by a slew of guest of guest musicians, a list that includes some of the most interesting players in Southern California. In a way, he is a prime example of a burgeoning, completely off-the-grid folk/noise music scene in Los Angeles, California based around vacant lots, crumbling slumlord rentals and a variety of illegal spaces. Whitman's music is infused with the same sort of joy and brutality as the neighborhood in Los Angeles he calls home, where weeds sprout through the pavement and couches get left on street corners.
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