Nobody knows where Scary Harry came from. East coast, probably. New York, maybe Maine. The paperwork exists somewhere in a foster system that didn’t particularly care about accuracy. He doesn’t discuss it, so we don’t either.
(We advise you to enjoy the art for what it is).
What is known: in between the group homes and the moving around, he found old movies. Sinatra. Astaire. Lugosi. Men who walked into rooms and owned them before they opened their mouths. That kind of confidence felt like a role he was born to wear and embracing that positive attention was what drove him. Wanting more he kept going.
He is thirty-six years old. Six foot one, lean, black hair, brown eyes. Those eyes — they carry the weight of a man that has seen things, things you do not want to discuss in the dark of the night. They are always searching, looking, and in certain moments you’d swear he was peering into your soul.
When not travelling he resides in a three-storey building located in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He is a proprietor, a performer, and depending on who’s asking, a detective of sorts. He leans in when he talks. Closer than you’d like. Do not make the mistake that this is an accident.
The music is Dark Cabaret — carnival barker cadence over 1950s crooner architecture built on Witness Architecture. Sinatra’s precision, Joel’s weight at the piano, Elton’s reach. From his seat at the organ the pipes bellow out your stories of horror, in only a way a man like Scary Harry can. This is Poetic Engineer work — Neural Rupture Syntax running underneath every note.
Mr Fancy Pants is on his shoulder. Waiting, watching — a little demon in disguise? Perhaps a best friend. He has always been there.
Scary Harry is APRA AMCOS registered and released through Seeker James Publishing.