Steve Sullivan

Steve Sullivan

I grew up in a one half horse railroad town struggling to survive in the brash winds of New Mexico.  I knew immediately that I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Like right out of the womb.  My mind is sand painted with the unusual characters one encounters in such a forlorn and forgotten place. The deceivingly limp handshake of a Mexican Mafia Consigliere, a crooked judge with his tumbleweeds unkempt,  the washed out tattoos of a desert motel hooker, smiling with missing back teeth loosely biting her eighteenth Marlboro Red that afternoon.  Hungry kids yelling in Spanglish, countless crowded churches filling their coffers. Charity never finding its way back into the community.   

Halfway through all this I picked up the guitar.  A 1970s Yamaha Classical guitar, buried in the settled dust in the back of the back closet in our adobe house.  Songwriting seemed natural, I didn’t even know what it was.  But you could either get wasted, get killed, or get the fuck out of town and I did two of those things.   Thank God through a series of unusual circumstances I ended up being reborn and replanted in White Bear Lake, Minnesota where I married a Midwestern girl and had a beautiful son.  Now I live and do dishes and sweep the floors, and I continue to hunger for the consolation of a ragged song.  I’m a legend in my own time, but nobody knows it.