At a time when a straight edge razor drawn across the cheek of Karl S. Williams would have collected no follicle, the young musician heard music that sounded like where he came from. The gently undulating fields of Australian sugar cane, tea tree-logged river banks of his childhood and the dark lush rows of coffee plants stood before him as a working man seemed reminiscent within The Song.
Music like this – that embodies Karl S. Williams – is evoked at the mention of a certain place and time. It was born there, crushed from human experience, distilled with universal soul; shone with the essential human spirit to where it is at once unadorned and yet staggeringly beautiful. Like hope. That Williams couldn’t play a tune – and didn’t come from a family that knew how to make one – was irrelevant. It was too late. It was unavoidable. It was life and death. He recognised healing, and sought to know it backwards. He could do no other thing. Karl’s voice is made from that music; he is a conduit that freely bellows, whispers, soars and intones, across so many octaves, stories of yours and experiences you survived. He has no other choice.