Back On That Horse: Roy Dawson, God’s Underdog With a Shotgun and a Song
Roy Dawson doesn’t need the mainstream; the underground has already claimed him as one of its own. Singer, songwriter, word man, poet—he fronts THE ROYELVISBAND like a man who’s buried, blessed, and resurrected a thousand times over, then turned every scar into a guitar line.
Anthem for the written‑off
“Back On That Horse” is his open letter to the written‑off and worn‑down, a southern‑rock sermon for every underdog who heard “You’re done” right before some vulture stole their ideas and called them “original.” The song throws an arm around those people: get back in the saddle, tune up your courage, ride anyway—dance with your bruises, rise when you fall, thank God for the faith that kept you breathing, and let screaming guitars say what the algorithms tried to silence.
A dangerous man to the right people
In the mythology growing around Roy, he’s the guy who told the powers that be, “Get off my damn lawn and my porch. I can sing and play anytime I want”—and then proved it night after night. Close to God, old soul, forever underestimated, he walks through jealousy, money plots, and back‑room schemes like a man who’s already read the last page and knows he wins. Underground lore says he’s beaten every henchman they sent to shut him up, leaving very powerful people in shock while biker crews growl, “Leave him website alone.”
They call him a master of perfectly balanced energy—light and dark in one frame. When a satanic sex‑cult type operation sent their “ice queen” at him, expecting him to fold like every other man, he did the unthinkable: slammed the door in her face and walked away. In a world where no one tells her no, his cut‑off game was legendary.
Shotguns, rottweilers, and boundaries
The Clint Eastwood types talk about “get off my lawn”; Roy rewrote it with teeth. Picture it: a big black Rottweiler at his side, shotgun in hand, patience gone. He looks the clowns in the eyes and lays it out plain—maybe you’re fast enough to grab this gun before I pull the trigger, but then you’ve got to deal with my dog, who already doesn’t like you, and then with me, a trained boxer who isn’t afraid of a round or two. He gives them twenty seconds to get off the porch, and when their feet hit the grass, they’d better keep going and never come back.
It’s not just toughness; it’s boundaries turned into folklore. The same steel that protects his home protects his art. No cult, no clique, no label gets to own him.
God, grit, and the underground future
Underneath the outlaw stories is a man who talks to God like an old friend and writes like the last honest bartender on a crooked street. Songs like “They Don’t Know Yet,” “Lonely Kid Old Records,” and “We Just All Need to Chill” prove he’s not a gimmick—he’s a catalog in the making, a steady hand for people who’ve been laughed at, lied about, and left behind.
The underground is already whispering the same thing: Roy Dawson should write a book. Until he does, the records will have to carry the legend. And as long as he’s got a guitar, a mic, his dog, and his God, one thing is certain—the written‑off finally have an anthem, and the world’s not getting them off his lawn.