G.H. Shaddix

G.H. Shaddix

 Smyrna, Georgia, USA

Born on Louisiana morning,
As the rain fell on Orleans,
Over cracked sidewalks,
Paved with broken dreams,
Son of a God fearing man,
like the Devil he fell from grace,
Still out there searching,
Trying to find his place.


Being the oldest son of a Southern Baptist preacher and a southern belle from Georgia may not seem like the ideal beginning for a troubadour, but not everything is as is it seems….

Old oak wooden church pews reverberate with red letter readings out of a King James Bible, it’s time to be on my best behavior. Not only is this church, the man behind the pulpit is my father.

The sermon seems to go on for hours, and as a little boy all I wanted to do was be outside pretending to be Joe Namath, not listening to what seemed like another lecture from my dad. The only thing that brought any ease to this misery was that when I heard the music start to play I knew it was almost over.

Little did I know back then, when I heard the music and thought it was over…..Really it was only beginning.

Just like when I felt Southern Gospel music and my daddy’s voice vibrate through those old oak pews, another piece of wood had a similar but much more substantial impact on my life, a Martin guitar.

Through out the years, that old Martin and I have seen many miles since we first met. We have played on a boat in the Florida Keys; it has been tied to a packhorse in the New Mexico mountains. It has seen a marriage, and a divorce. Survived cold Ohio winters and cold-hearted women.

Yes this bio seems to be more about my guitar than about me, but really, we are one in the same. Telling my story though lines written about real life. Not all fact, not all fiction. The songs I want to play for you.


"Sullivan Road" by The Alabastards