Sings high and mean. The tambourine has been taped back together more times than anyone can count. The hat is not negotiable.
Cherry-red hollowbody slung somewhere around his knees. Owns exactly one fur coat, which he refuses to explain.
Plays standing up, dressed better than everyone else in the room. Settles things with Dean the only way that matters: solo against solo.
Over two meters of calm. The reason no argument near this band has ever lasted longer than four seconds.
Nobody remembers his real name. Possibly including Gator.
The county is hard to leave. Leave your address and you'll be the first to know when the truck rolls out.
Tolliver County is five men, one white hat, and a piano that gets treated like a percussion instrument. The band takes its name from the place the Tolliver family calls home, a county you won't find on any map. Ask the band and they'll tell you that's the map's problem.
Brothers Ellis and Dean Tolliver started the band the way most good things in their family start: an argument that turned into a song. Their cousin Gator sits behind the drums. Amos Ledbetter holds down the bass, and Monty Fontaine plays the piano standing up, with a waxed mustache that has survived three encores and one small fire.
The sound is southern rock with the engine running hot: swamp-blues guitars, a rhythm section that pushes, rock and roll piano out of the old school, and choruses built for rooms where the ceiling drips. They grew up on AC/DC and Creedence, stole the piano moves from their mother's Meat Loaf records, and decided early that if a song can't survive a sweaty club on a Tuesday, it doesn't get to exist.
Tolliver County doesn't exist. The band does. Somewhere between those two facts is the best night out you've had in years.
High-resolution photos, logos and full bios are available for press. For booking, interviews and everything else, write to press@tollivercounty.band. Somebody in the county will answer.
