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HENRY Redding HUNTER When I met him, he was wearing an eye-patch. He didn't explain it. He'd driven from New Orleans to Brooklyn on adderall and truck stop speed, and back to Austin on a whim that a whiskey-stained couch was available for a few nights. He never left. Instead he found a little loft with a spiral staircase, began recording music obsessively, and to this day, has not gotten one piece of furniture. He is an insomniac, the founder of Whiskey & Apples Records and soon of The Owl, an opium din-like warehouse venue that will host music, film, and art parties. He rarely answers his phone, drives his car, or leaves his house. He doesn't wear the eye-patch anymore, but his right eye still quivers when you mention Los Angeles. His shows are energetic, twisted, intoxicating. He makes a cold room feel warm. And when he leaves, the room feels cold again. |