Scott H. Biram bills himself as "the Dirty Old One Man Band," and he lives up to the moniker by cranking his Gibson through a fuzzy old amp, blowing primordial blues harp with the aid of a harmonica rack, and providing relentless rhythms with an amplified homemade foot stomp board and a high-hat cymbal. In his misspent youth, Biram played in more conventional punk and bluegrass bands, but discovered he could make more of an impact on his own with an in-your-face stage presence. A Biram performance can be a scary thing, as he growls his way through a sweat-drenched collection of songs dealing with drunken driving, drug smuggling, and other forms of self-destructive behavior delivered in a primitive sandpaper squawk that has to be experienced to be believed. Biram adds the blistering energy of punk to a potent brew that blends blues, metal, bluegrass, Tejano, zydeco and hard-core honky-tonk country to achieve its dramatic effect. His between-song rants about women, prison, hellfire, damnation, and the ultimate abyss confronting us combine the fever of a revival preacher with the freeform rants of a street-corner psychotic to put the gangrenous icing on his depraved cake.