He is a charismatic cannonball of a man, pale and perfectly round with a rust colored beard ringing his loquacious mouth and the disposition of a shark-headed bruno entering his home pit. Arriving to the strains of Movado’s “So Special”, wearing a simple black shirt and shorts, smoking a weed butter buttressed blunt so potent its scent reached the back of the Cubby Bear’s rather spacious interior easily (he would spark multiple blunts throughout the performance, giving the previous one out to someone in the crowd, the first instance of which, after pulling the replacement from a cylindrical metal container and stating “I always come prepared,” threw the floor into a frenzy), Bronson proceeded to hand out plastic cups from the stage, before pouring every recipient a sniff of Hennessy. After warning those assembled that he had thought he had lost his voice that morning, he then proceeded to tear through “Pouches of Tuna,” living up to his lyrics—“Line for line”—with smoke flowing in between the impossibly rococo thicket of words he was stringing together. His fine-grit sandpaper rasp and Ginsu delivery not only survives in its live iteration, it thrives.

Outdoorsmen shit.

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