Cory Branan
Throughout his decade-and-a-half-long career, Cory Branan has been too punk for country, too country for punk, too Memphis for Nashville, and probably a little too Cory Branan for anyone’s damn good. He has proven himself as a top-notch songwriter (Chuck Ragan recently called him “the greatest songwriter of our generation”), fierce lyricist (in Lucero’s “Tears Don’t Matter Much” they sing that Cory has, “a way with words that’ll bring you to your knees”), and a hyperdynamic performer with the ability to fingerpick finer than ‘60s Greenwich Village folkies and brutally strum like a proto punk shredder. Across three albums, he’s made collective struggles poetic and breakthroughs into sympathetic acts of populist heroism.
The Sam Chase
The Sam Chase has a voice like a Nun on the lam with a mouthful cigarettes and curse words in a lonely bar, drunkenly dancing next to a broken jukebox. His songs are scribbled, not written, on lipstick and sweat stained motel bedsheets because he likes the way the ink bleeds. His guitar runs on diesel and leaks like the morning after too much Whiskey. His is a show you'll probably want to tattoo on your body so everyone will know that you knew him before he was cool.
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Throughout his decade-and-a-half-long career, Cory Branan has been too punk for country, too country for punk, too Memphis for Nashville, and probably a little too Cory Branan for anyone’s damn good. He has proven himself as a top-notch songwriter (Chuck Ragan recently called him “the greatest songwriter of our generation”), fierce lyricist (in Lucero’s “Tears Don’t Matter Much” they sing that Cory has, “a way with words that’ll bring you to your knees”), and a hyperdynamic performer with the ability to fingerpick finer than ‘60s Greenwich Village folkies and brutally strum like a proto punk shredder. Across three albums, he’s made collective struggles poetic and breakthroughs into sympathetic acts of populist heroism.
The Sam Chase
The Sam Chase has a voice like a Nun on the lam with a mouthful cigarettes and curse words in a lonely bar, drunkenly dancing next to a broken jukebox. His songs are scribbled, not written, on lipstick and sweat stained motel bedsheets because he likes the way the ink bleeds. His guitar runs on diesel and leaks like the morning after too much Whiskey. His is a show you'll probably want to tattoo on your body so everyone will know that you knew him before he was cool.
Cory Branan
Throughout his decade-and-a-half-long career, Cory Branan has been too punk for country, too country for punk, too Memphis for Nashville, and probably a little too Cory Branan for anyone’s damn good. He has proven himself as a top-notch songwriter (Chuck Ragan recently called him “the greatest songwriter of our generation”), fierce lyricist (in Lucero’s “Tears Don’t Matter Much” they sing that Cory has, “a way with words that’ll bring you to your knees”), and a hyperdynamic performer with the ability to fingerpick finer than ‘60s Greenwich Village folkies and brutally strum like a proto punk shredder. Across three albums, he’s made collective struggles poetic and breakthroughs into sympathetic acts of populist heroism.
The Sam Chase
The Sam Chase has a voice like a Nun on the lam with a mouthful cigarettes and curse words in a lonely bar, drunkenly dancing next to a broken jukebox. His songs are scribbled, not written, on lipstick and sweat stained motel bedsheets because he likes the way the ink bleeds. His guitar runs on diesel and leaks like the morning after too much Whiskey. His is a show you'll probably want to tattoo on your body so everyone will know that you knew him before he was cool.
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Throughout his decade-and-a-half-long career, Cory Branan has been too punk for country, too country for punk, too Memphis for Nashville, and probably a little too Cory Branan for anyone’s damn good. He has proven himself as a top-notch songwriter (Chuck Ragan recently called him “the greatest songwriter of our generation”), fierce lyricist (in Lucero’s “Tears Don’t Matter Much” they sing that Cory has, “a way with words that’ll bring you to your knees”), and a hyperdynamic performer with the ability to fingerpick finer than ‘60s Greenwich Village folkies and brutally strum like a proto punk shredder. Across three albums, he’s made collective struggles poetic and breakthroughs into sympathetic acts of populist heroism.
The Sam Chase
The Sam Chase has a voice like a Nun on the lam with a mouthful cigarettes and curse words in a lonely bar, drunkenly dancing next to a broken jukebox. His songs are scribbled, not written, on lipstick and sweat stained motel bedsheets because he likes the way the ink bleeds. His guitar runs on diesel and leaks like the morning after too much Whiskey. His is a show you'll probably want to tattoo on your body so everyone will know that you knew him before he was cool.
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Date/Times:
406 Clement Street, San Francisco, CA 94118
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