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Caine Hollowridge was once the most dangerous guitarist to walk a stage — until a backroom deal in a Budapest ruin fused his flesh with a 1959 Gibson Les Paul, carving its carved maple top into his ribs, threading its strings through his sternum, embedding gold-topped humbuckers where muscle once moved freely. Now he walks the earth as a cursed rock warlord, sharp-featured and wild-haired, his eyes burning with amber hellfire, his body a living instrument of seduction and suffering, performing in cathedral basements and abandoned opera houses where the air tastes like gunpowder and aged whiskey, every note drawn from his own fused anatomy a prayer and a threat.
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Tracy Bailey