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Cruickshank has seen four time zones and three continents within the last ten days, but you wouldn’t know it if you saw him. His smile is deep and earnest: eyes blue like wild rapids, he moves with military posture and the swagger of a weathered rockstar. He’s in between a 10-day tour of South East Asia, a meeting in Los Angeles, and a red carpet event with Tiesto, but even a hard look at Cruickshank couldn’t spot any sign of exhaustion or apathy. He’s a workhorse, both as an artist and as a man—as untiring as he is considerate, as mischievous as he is honest, and as rugged as he is pure.
 
Cruickshank is the son of pastors, but that didn’t keep him from drifting in and out of the grit of the Australian coast. Though his scars are tough as old leather and his tattoos have already started to fade with the years, he can still feel the bitter sting of the day he got each one. Most rock singers strive for a pained and heavy sound. Cruickshank can’t help it. With each song, his heart crumbles under its memories struggling to keep up with each beat.
 
You could say that he's a force of nature. He can move mountains with his shaggy grin, cure the deepest blues with a sigh of Camel smoke. There’s something wild in the contours of his face, something untamed in the darker parts of his eyes: rub him the right way and he’ll save your life; rub him the wrong way and he’ll take it away.
 
Cruickshank’s songs paint pictures of life it is it’s truly felt. His crackling, soaring melodies are painfully honest; his storytelling is careful but unchained, like the working class heroes before him. Where Woody Guthrie once stood spinning tales from the Great Depression, where the Boss once was with his raw New Jersey parables, Cruickshank is the voice of every broken heart that’s hungry for something bigger.

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