I wasn’t born. I was set loose. Thumb in the air, one foot out the door, and nothing to my name but noise. Cold winters. Hot knives. Kraft Dinner and Hermit’s Wine. Raised without mercy. Baptized by Crom. Hardened by roads no map shows. Bare fists. Busted guitars. Cheap weed and bad decisions. The Outlaw Reverend ain’t a name. It’s a warning.

I drag the truth through broken beer bottles, blood, and blunted roaches. I set it to outlaw country rock and spit it out for the damned and the faithful alike. No big labels. No apologies. No radio polish. From the forgotten highways of New Brunswick to the back road Bumbles where the nights stretch long and trouble comes easy. I carry rebellion in every chord. New Brunswick-born. Canadian outlaw to the bone. This ain’t church. It’s a warning shot. And if you hear it, maybe you were meant to.