Vic Chesnutt, the great Southern poet and song crafter for whom I blog today, put every bloody bit of himself in those stark, delicate, raw, biting and bright songs.  He was an underground living legend often seen around town, performing or attending, in the late 80s/early 90s when I was living in Athens, GA. The day I left Athens, my good buddy Brad made me a gift of all his Vic Chesnutt cds, which consisted of Little, West of Rome, and Drunk. I lived in Honolulu for a few years after that, listening to the only one of those that was not too scratched to play (Little) over and over.

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