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Honest, lyin’, loud, quiet. Soul-searchin’, stomp-boxin’, songwritin’, storytellin’. Daytime, night-time, dinnertime, party-time. Singalong, old song, new song, no one’s-ever-heard-song. Acoustic, electric, unsympathetic. By myself, with someone else, without any help. Pseudo country-soul, gospel-rock’n’roll singer. I am Timothy Rupert Klum Baker, born into a humble, but creative household. A fuzzy vinyl soundtrack of Willie Nelson, Cream and James Taylor played in the background of my childhood. An early adolescent at the height of the Seattle grunge scene, I became entranced by Kurt Cobain. My mother thought he was an idiot. Her sentiments only compounded upon his untimely death. Self inflicted tragedies aside, I am thankful for his angry lullabies and the minimal musical ability required to play them. Playing them made me feel like I owned something. My teens were spent in numerous loud, fast bands. We were the self-righteous, dreadlocked upstarts playing the opening spots for