Arkansas is bastardized French, a Quapaw word that meant downstream or south wind. Tyler Lee Holter was raised in the woods there, carving trails through the pine needles and underbrush. He got lost in a canoe on the flooded forest floor late one thick spring night, and the deafening roar of insects and critters, both haunting and home, still hasn’t left him. 

The music humans make would come a little later, when his Grandpa introduced him to the country and western greats. Until then, it’d all been hymns and church songs, but Hank and Willie made sure he was passed along to Townes and Prine – and once you’re that deep into the woods, you may as well just keep venturing. 

So Holter headed off to Denver when he was of age, started picking a guitar in a dilapidated one bedroom, finding the folk, drinking the dives. He just had to sit back and put a lonesome downstream voice to it all.

-Jesse Elliott (Ark Life)

Tyler Lee Holter's ability to express all things country, his dapper southern drapery, and hospitable demeanor, all speak to the charm embedded deep within his song writing. However, not all of Tyler Lee's demons fit into one tight and consolidated little package. If we dig just beneath the cowboy surface of the man we find a cornucopia of oddities- bird skulls, bone fragments, gnarly tree limbs, and ghostly figures plague the inner character of the songwriter. He is what happens when two fantasies become impossibly, and irrevocably, mashed together, held together only by the sinewy connective tissue of passion and plague. He does not have a split personality in the classical sense, but rather a bifurcated self that is not of this earth, which demands to traverse this plane of reality without any prospect of comfort. Do not be fooled by his external appearance, but instead look closer- for inside of his snakeskin boots, and weaving in and out of the strings of his guitar, can be seen the smokey remains of a hell that smolders still.

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