In the vast, indifferent expanse of the universe—where stars are born, explode, and get absolutely no royalties for their performance—there exists a small, blue planet where creatures insist on giving themselves names. One such creature, known as Eagle Johnson, has a backstory so convoluted it makes quantum physics look like a board game rulebook.

Eagle was once called Christopher Alan Nanney, a name that, despite all efforts, refused to sound heroic. His paternal ancestors, a scrappy bunch from the Mediterranean island of Minorca, were unceremoniously dropped into Florida as indentured servants—history’s way of saying, "Congratulations, you live here now!" After working off their time, they mingled with the local Seminoles and settled in St. Augustine, where Eagle grew up hearing tales of his "Indian granddaddy."

This sparked a lifelong obsession with Native American culture, made all the more ironic by his mother—a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Scot who looked like she should be selling shortbread.

Eagle’s upbringing was a delightful tug-of-war between extremes. His mother, a Greenpeace warrior and full-time idealist, was convinced she could save the world with enough petitions and reusable tote bags. His father, a no-nonsense outdoorsman, preferred hunting rattlesnakes and believed that the solution to most problems involved either a fishing rod or a firearm. Instead of Boy Scouts, they joined "Indian Guides," a Floridian alternative where Eagle learned archery, camping, and how to look serious in a feathered headdress.

Then, the cosmic algorithm glitched. Eagle discovered surfing, skateboarding, and music—activities mercifully free of venomous reptiles—and abandoned his would-be destiny as a future Florida Man.

At ten, he took up drumming under Jimmy Glenn, a former Ray Charles drummer. By high school, he was a marimba player in a ragtime band that toured Florida, because why not? But music, as every practical adult reminded him, was not a "real job." So, in a rare attempt at conformity, he enrolled in college for digital media. This lasted roughly as long as a sneeze before he dropped out to play drums in an Americana rock band called Jonathan Appleseed.

Then, the universe decided to shake things up. A casual game of touch football resulted in a concussion so severe it wiped his memory and temporarily deleted his ability to speak. When he recovered, his brain, now seemingly upgraded to a more mystical operating system, started serving up divine visions. These culminated in the firm belief that God wanted him to break into a church on the night of Easter Sunday, 2010. So he did.

This, as it turns out, is frowned upon. Eagle was promptly sent to Duval County Jail for three months—two of them in isolation—followed by six months in a state mental hospital. There, armed only with a guitar and an unusual amount of free time, he wrote his first real songs. Given the circumstances, knitting might have been the more expected choice, but music won out.

Upon release, Eagle did what any rational person would: he became a Reiki practitioner, moved to a goat farm in Gainesville, and studied healing. Then, during a particularly enlightening meditation, he realized music was the ultimate form of healing. So, in what was now an established life pattern, he quit school (again) and moved to Memphis, rebranding himself as Screamin’ Eagle.

Memphis, a city built on legend, introduced him to Zeke Johnson, a self-proclaimed last-of-the-original-Delta-bluesmen who had learned from Mississippi Fred McDowell and Bukka White. Sensing fate at work, Zeke took Eagle under his wing. They formed a duo called Old & Young, and Zeke encouraged Eagle to take his last name, citing "folk tradition." Eagle resisted—until he had a dream where God (this time appearing as a woman) declared, "You are Screamin’ Eagle, but you will be known as Eagle Johnson."

And so, Eagle Johnson drifted to Nashville, where he finally assembled a backing band that morphed into the studio project Clean Machine. He dove headfirst into the recording arts, soaking up knowledge like a sponge in a monsoon. The payoff? Wilco added him to their Spotify Recommends playlist, Patrick Carney of The Black Keys called his music "fucking great," and—just for good measure—Lee Scratch Perry co-produced a Clean Machine track.

Now, with the help of Young World Records—a studio and label inspired by Black Ark, Abbey Road, and Motown—Eagle Johnson, along with his band Clean Machine, is on a mission to press records made from recycled ocean plastic. Because really, what’s better than turning the wreckage of human negligence into something that actually sounds good?

Young World and Eagle are also quietly building Juniper, a fair trade music streaming service designed to put artists first. Shhhh. You can sign up to be a beta tester and stay in the loop here: youngworldrecords.com.

Notable support bookings: David Bazan, Valerie June, The Seratones, Poi Dog Pondering, Rolling Blackouts C.F., Deeper, Shovels & Rope.

* For Fans of : Sierra Ferrell, Neil Young, Shannon and the Clams, Tom Petty, Tame Impala, Leon Bridges, Gary Clark Jr., Anderson .Paak, The Black Keys, Haim, The White Stripes, King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard, Grateful Dead, Ty Segall, Khruangbin, Andrew Bird, Sam Evian, Mac Demarco, My Morning Jacket, Kimbra.