For example, in 2003 Biram was nearly killed after colliding head-on with an 18-wheeler. He broke both legs, a foot, and an arm. Yet six weeks later he rolled back onstage, performing in a wheelchair while attached to an IV.
That same year he dropped his third self-released disc, Lo-Fi Mojo, recorded live on an Austin radio station. He then handed a copy to Chicago's Bloodshot Records, who signed him less than two weeks later.
Known as "Dirty Old One Man Band," Biram stomps out a beat with an amplified left foot while thrashing a distorted 1959 Gibson and hollering truck-driving tales of "Blood, Sweat, and Murder" with the voice of someone who has traveled to hell and back.
"Let's just say I spend a lot of time on the road," replies Biram, who tours 10 months out of the year. As a result, the dude has earned a cultish fan base dubbed "The First Church of Ultimate Fanaticism." His latest, Graveyard Shift, perfectly balances Saturday sinning and Sunday redemption.
Is all this mere coincidence? Maybe not.