STORY

I didn’t grow up dreaming about cowboy hats or trailer parks.

I grew up screaming.

Metal was my language — extreme vocals, distortion, rage in its purest form. The kind of sound that doesn’t just come out of your mouth, but tears out through your spine. That was what I wanted: to learn to scream the right way, to push my voice past the line and come back with scars worth hearing.

So I found a vocal coach. And I told him what I wanted.

But he said no.

He told me not to scream. Not yet. Said I’d mess it up, damage something.

Said I wasn’t ready.

And maybe I wasn’t. But that “no” hit harder than it should’ve. Because it didn’t just block a technique — it cut off a part of me that finally felt real.

So I started writing. Just to keep from rusting.

And somewhere in that space — half wounded, half laughing — Mike Moonshine was born.

It started as a joke. A filthy song idea. A parody of a parody.

But I’m the kind of guy who likes when things make sense.

I don’t do throwaway shit. I don’t do chaos for the sake of noise.

So I built a world.

Every character, every lyric, every scream behind the laughter — it’s all connected.

It’s a southern gothic multiverse where trauma’s dressed in flannel, truth’s wearing a trucker hat, and every bar line’s hiding a backstory.

Sure, Wheeler Walker Jr. lit the match. He made me realize that it’s possible to make fun of something and still take it seriously.

But Mike Moonshine?

That’s mine.

It’s my way of screaming, even if I’m singing slow.