The grandson of an Italian immigrant coal miner (and proud-and-loud son of the central Appalachian Mountains), punk-folk troubadour J Marinelli has taken the do-it-yourself idea to its furthest extreme. That is to say, he’s his own band; nigh on a decade ago (inspired by the one- man madness of fellow West Virginian Hasil Adkins, among some other O.G. monobanda-style badassery) our boy abandoned the notion of a backing band, and decided to do the dirty deed his damn self. Thus: a booted right toe booms the big bass drum while the right heel keeps time on his humble hi-hat. His left foot snaps a snare, while his veined and gnarled hands grapple and grip the well- worn neck of a sturdy silverflake six-string — sometimes striking a cymbal between syncopated strums. He tops this well-edited götterdämmerung with a crackling croon of a voice that recalls the forgotten apex of every aging lo-fi junkie’s vinyl collection (for you trainspotting music nerd- types, the Fall, Billy Childish, the Urinals, and Guided by Voices seem to be popular points of comparison, but you didn’t hear that from me). The end result is a swirling, sweaty, self-contained cauldron of sound and motion. A sound at once familiar and strange: texture and tumult, punk and folk, sweetness and skronk, avant-garde and avant-garage. By the end of the set, you’re as exhausted and exhilarated as he is – eyes bulging and red, hair matted with perspiration, mind aglow with the possibilities of what a West Virginia boy can do if he puts his mind, heart, and back to it. Furthermore, after bringing his one-man roots-punk juggernaut to the endless sprawl of his home country, Marinelli has recently completed two successful tours of Europe — charming audiences in Austria, the Czech Republic, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, Ireland, and the United Kingdom.