There’s a standard descriptor for Marcus King, and it’s been used consistently since people started writing about him at all: he’s an “old soul”. I’m not here to break that chain. Sitting across from me in his vintage cowboy gear in some tiny office in some obscure wing of the House Of Blues in Boston, the guitar prodigy doesn’t just look like some long-lost Flying Burrito Brother, he feels as worn-in and well-travelled as his old western shirt. Like he’s been doing this forever. But he’s only 26. “My old days weren’t even that long ago,” he says with a laugh.
They do stretch a good decade, at least. Born to a musical family in Greenville, South Carolina, King formed his band when he was a teenager, playing the sort of places you might see in the Blues Brothers movie: chicken wire strewn across the stage, rowdy crowds, late nights. You tend to grow up fast in that environment, and to learn on your feet.
“We were playing this gig, it must have been more than ten years ago now,” he remembers,
