“He could literally sing the phone book and bring you to tears.” The warm, raspy, honey-soaked voice of a troubadour lived well beyond his years. His is a story with many layers and moving parts. The classic breed of the folk hero born poor in the rich southern soul of a small South Carolina town. But Baxley would have none of that. A humble quiet type that sums his accolades up to over sensationalism. The outlaw parents, the impoverished youth, the golden glove medals, the gunshot wounds. He refers to them as over-glorified and “not much worth looking back on”. It’s the sap at the core of a solid oak. A well that runs deep and plentiful. And the curse and blessing of those true songwriters that come ever so seldom a generation.