Liz Brasher and the Georgia Mountain String Band

She comes out of the South. Charlotte, North Carolina, and grew up before the war and after the time of peace. Her father was an Italian. Her mother loved the Church. She got her musical beginning there. Grammy winning Producer Mark Neill heard her sound, and set her on the straight path. She beats the story out of her music. It jumps and hollers and shouts. It reaches out and takes your mind. She sings, but her music talks.

Miss Rhythm in lights. Traveling in her own car with her own band down South, like it was the early ‘50s. Riding through the land of man, dressing in sheds and outhouses by candlelight. Hanging gowns in dressing rooms, looking like a million bucks.

Folks who ain’t suffered much can’t appreciate it.

For Liz, music’s simple and music’s complex. Music is Pop Staples’ tremolo-soaked guitar riffs. It’s Libba Cotten’s simple genius. It’s Mahalia Jackson’s glorious voice. It’s soul. It’s Motown. It’s the Wall of Sound and the Wrecking Crew. It’s labels like Stax and Vee-Jay, Sun and Chess, King and Fame. It’s all been done before, but ain’t nothing new under the sun.

It seeps into her and pours out. So when she sings, what comes out is what she feels. No more. No less. But what she feels is all of it.

She’s got it together as good as any ever can and puts more into a song than most people put into a lifetime. She’s got no gimmicks. No gambles. No gestures. She’s pure. She doesn’t just play music. She explodes. Real Gospel. Real Country. Real Soul and R&B ballads. The truth. The baddest feeling that’ll make you feel you lived.