Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Danny Reisch at Good Danny's, Austin, Texas
Coming from New Orleans, Benjamin Booker is used to seeing the pissed off and brown Mississippi River empty its guts into the gulf, where he lives. He's used to witnessing that relief, even if at times he sees it as nothing more than water. You can stand on the banks of this river -- made up of the rain, snow and run-off from all parts north -- and get a sense of the urgency of its rage. It's just racing down that carved out path, letting gravity yank it south to where it can finally wash out horizontally into that bigger bath.
The urgency of the rage and that stomping off to where everything equalizes, or bottoms out, is where Booker's music brings us to. He brings us to that inability to calm the fuck down. We'll calm down when there's something to calm down about. There's no sight of that, however. He brings us to a spot where everything in us feels electric, where our skin is pinging and all of the jitters are smoking through us. The jitters are our wiring. Our circuits are sizzling and we're on the verge of losing all of our sanity.
He understands our hesitation to feel grounded. He believes in our pessimism. We are feeling it together. The future is scary and seemingly unapproachable. Sleep doesn't come easily because of all this. We take what we can get and live as strongly and as surely as we're able to force out.
Benjamin Booker Official Site