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Hailing from Montgomery, AL, JP Harris had long fashioned himself a carpenter who did halfway-decent campfire renditions of old country tunes, but turned suddenly to songwriting in his mid twenties after years without the slightest ambition toward “music business” of any sort. He would assemble a band, trade his work truck for an old Econoline van, and fifteen years would elapse before he would reluctantly add the term “professional” in front of his title of “musician.”

In a musical landscape of period-correct reproduction, “outlaw” internet posturing, and flavor-of-the-month variants on country, “JP Harris Is A Trash Fire” burns bright as a dumpster ablaze in a Walmart parking lot on a moonless night; some will fear it, some will gravitate to its acrid warmth, and most will have no idea what to make of the situation.

Harris has been steadily elbowing the definitive boundaries of “country music” wider with every album, both sonically and lyrically, and his latest piece of self described “Avant-Country” is no exception. Even within the rapidly growing world of “underground” country music, Harris still considers himself an outsider, content to inhabit a gray area where punk rock ethos, folk art aesthetic, and the workingman’s ballad mingle.

When he’s not touring, JP Harris can be found fixing historic houses, riding old motorcycles, or picking through scrap piles for useable refuse.

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