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Despite the name, Matt the Electrician is no longer an electrician, focusing instead on a music career that has spanned the course of two decades, a dozen records, and  thousands of shows. His music, however, remains rooted in his blue collar beginnings, with lyricism that embraces the day-to-day, the mundane, the beauty of the ordinary. 

Before moving to Austin, TX and launching his career as a working-class folk musician, Matt Sever grew up on the West Coast.  His parents played John Denver and Pete Seeger songs on the family record player, and Matt spent his earliest years surrounded by the things that would later fill his own music: acoustic guitars, timeless melodies, lyrics that celebrated the joys and heartaches of everyday life, and — above all else — a strong work ethic. 

That work ethic served him well in the mid-1990s, when he moved to Austin in search of new horizons and better opportunities. Matt was already playing music by then, and in need of a steady day job, he began working as an electrician, spending his days wiring houses in the Texas heat.  Once quitting time came, he'd grab his guitar and drive himself to an evening show, usually taking the stage in his work boots and sweaty clothes. "Hi; I'm Matt the Electrician," he'd tell the crowd, hoping his occupation would help explain his appearance. The name stuck, even after his growing fan base at home, as well as abroad, allowed him to hang up his pliers for good. 

Matt’s most recent release, a double CD called The Doubles, is the culmination of a 2-year vinyl 45 collaborative project.

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Bonnie Whitmore is not new to the music business. For the last two decades, she’s played bass and sung with some of the biggest artists in the Americana genre: Hayes Carll, John Moreland, Eliza Gilkyson, Sunny Sweeney, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, and Butch Hancock, to name a few. She’s also maintained a weekly residency at the legendary Continental Club Gallery in Austin, where she lives. 

Her 2016 release F*** With Sad Girls turned heads, but with Last Will and Testament, Whitmore has turned a corner in her own artistry that may just catapult her to the top of the Americana heap. 

As someone who’s never shied away from the issues, she’s not afraid to be direct. Her record is full of topical songs, tackling suicide, rape culture, loss, and the great American divide. It’s not easy to talk about heavy subjects without weighing the music down, but Whitmore pulls it off without difficulty. It’s like she’s used to talking about serious matters in casual conversation — which she is.

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Best known for his stint as a member of the acclaimed '80s roots-rock band the True Believers, singer/guitarist Jon Dee Graham was also a longtime fixture of the renowned Austin, TX music scene. Raised on a ranch located near the Texas-Mexico border, he picked up the guitar at age 12, years later dropping out of law school at the University of Texas to join the Austin punk band the Skunks. The group went on to open for the likes of the Clash and the Ramones, but in 1979 Graham -- frustrated by his minimal input into their creative direction -- left the Skunks to back blues singer Lou Ann Barton, followed during the early '80s as leader of the new wave units Five Spot and the Lift. He joined the True Believers in 1984, and although the group quickly emerged as a major critical favorite they were dropped by EMI in the wake of their self-titled 1986 debut, disbanding soon after.

Although Graham's gifts as a composer blossomed during his stint in the True Believers, he chose not to pursue a solo career in the wake of the band's collapse, instead relocating from Austin to Los Angeles and collaborating with X frontman John Doe on his solo debut Meet John Doe. Subsequently working with everyone from Michelle Shocked to Patty Smyth, Graham earned a reputation as a much sought-after sideman and writer before leaving the West Coast in 1995 to tour Europe with blues-rocker Calvin Russell. Upon returning to Austin the next year, he was by now so disenchanted with the music industry that he accepted a construction job; singer Kelly Willis ultimately lured Graham back to performing, however, and in 1997 he also began work on his long-awaited solo debut Escape from Monster Island. Summerland followed in 1999.

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THE VOICE “BettySoo may well have the most gorgeous voice in Texas if not all contemporary folk – its purity and strength can be downright devastating.” ACOUSTIC GUITAR

THE PERFORMANCE “Truly remarkable. BettySoo’s sharp, self-deprecating humor skillfully wove the songs together. Her clear, evocative voice and poignant lyrics recall Patty Griffin and Joni Mitchell...did I mention she’s a hell of a guitar player?” NO DEPRESSION

THE SONGS “Beautiful, heart-wrenching songwriting that is edgy and unwavering.” KUT FM “Exceptionally well written and arranged songs with confidence that speaks volumes.” AUSTIN AMERICAN-STATESMAN

LATELY, BETTYSOO HAS... - Recorded harmonies for Eliza Gilkyson, James McMurtry, Robert Harrison (Cotton Mather), and toured supporting Alejandro Escovedo - Recorded an album with Gandulf Hennig produced by Grammy-winner Sheldon Gomberg (Ben Harper, Rickie Lee Jones); accompanied by Benmont Tench (Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers), David Steele (Dwight Yoakam, John Prine), Pete Thomas (Elvis Costello), and Taras Prodaniuk (Merle Haggard, Richard Thompson) - Released a new Nobody’s Girl's album featuring Charlie Sexton (Bob Dylan), J.J. Johnson (Tedeschi Trucks), Glenn Fukunaga (Dixie Chicks), David Grissom (Buddy Guy, Allman Brothers, Ringo Starr), and Michael Ramos (John Mellencamp, BoDeans), who produced.

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Will Johnson’s 7th solo album “El Capitan” is out now. Recorded over three days in June 2020 at Ramble Creek Recording in Austin, Texas with contributions from Britton Beisenherz, Thor Harris (of Shearwater, Xiu Xiu), and Lindsey Verrill (Little Mazarn).

It’s a more subdued album than last year’s Wire Mountain, with Johnson using only his Stella acoustic guitar to record. Here’s his description of these songs:

There’s a simple “mornin”” that is exchanged amongst many early bird runners as they pass. I’ve noticed this since I was nine or so, and have taken different interpretations from it: Have a good run. Good luck. Have a good day. Stay safe. We’re a part of something, moving in harmony. Look at us fucking go.

It’s pleasing in its way; a show of support. The location might be a utility road in Wyoming or a city park in St. Petersburg. I don’t know the root of it, or how this transfer of pleasantry started amongst this cut of humanity. It’s never been: “morning..” or “good morning” or even “g’mornin”. It’s just: “mornin'”. There’s a musicality to it, and I think it means more to me these days, as do the moments outside. It’s where the lines, the choruses, and some full songs are coming from, now more than ever.

This new record started years ago at a friend’s dining room table in Portland, building up on long desert drives, in hotel bathrooms, at casino bars, and on these regular runs. Over years, the songs mortared themselves together into something I thought fit together. Some are now quite old, and a couple are pandemic-new. It feels like we’re at the mercy of nature now more than ever, and the quietude of this patch of time made sense to document them and finally get them out. I took a hundred-dollar Stella guitar to my friend, Britton’s, and we spent three days, distanced, building something. We let go of old habits, peeled things back, and tracked it all to a Tascam 388. We ate tacos, drank Tecate and found happiness in the act of moving again in the early summer heat. There’s tape hiss, and there are imperfections. Thor Harris and Lindsey Verrill contributed beautifully from afar.

The other night I took to another run to feel the night’s breeze, and maybe see if another melody might be out there. It was late, and now I sometimes take to running right down the middle of once-busy streets. Another night runner approached and moved over, giving wide berth. He put his mask up, and I pulled my bandana up from my neck. There was compassion in the movement of the dance. He flashed a peace sign, and I flashed one back. It was a needed reminder that most of us are still moving together, just from different places now. I headed back to the middle of the road, and we headed our opposite directions, giving chase to whatever kind of solace and satisfaction we could find in that quiet night. Chasing clarity in the stillness of the world’s new, oft-strange chapter.