A few years ago a young man sat in the back of a packed cab as it ambled along Hollywood Blvd, humming along to Jeff Buckley. But that is not quite where this story starts. . .

Restless and broke, not a hope in the world, a lost soul, only nineteen years old. From a small town in Oklahoma, this young man had unshakable faith in one immutable truth: he had a voice.

The young man had a simple plan. Get to LA. Start playing on street corners. Just let people hear you and something will happen. As it tends to, the universe had better plans. In the back of that cab, with the engine idling in traffic, the radio turned up - the young man stopped humming and began singing. A soulful, yearning falsetto unintentionally insistent on the attention of the front seat passenger. Pete Lawrie Winfield, who sat shotgun, turned to the young man in the back and said: do that again. He did, to which Pete replied: you are coming with me.

Moving in and sleeping on the couch, the young man and his newfound impresario buried themselves in a basement studio. Melding a voice that can only be described as liquid gold with inspiration from greats such as The Police, Hall and Oates and Peter Gabriel, the pair begun a process of alchemy. When the sun finally rose on the endeavor, the young man was no longer a lost soul. Now. . . he was Thunder Jackson.