The Novel Sound:
Let’s say you own a brothel: An antediluvian bordello on the hill behind a wrought iron fence, protected by stone gargoyles, and constantly haunted by thunder clouds and lighting. You serve top-shelf whiskey, hand-rolled cigars, and the ladies flirt wildly for the john’s attention, while you shoot pool and ask the piano player to crank out one more.
Rev Tom Frost isn’t that piano player. He’s the third shift one. The one who howls like a wounded animal reminiscent of a young Tom Waits. And that is never a negative comparison. Frost is a one man bar room jukebox taking advantage of the bordello’s beat old piano and killer acoustics. He plays gospel for the sinners, surf for the land-locked, and trash for the connoisseurs.