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Scott Miller hates children.

Well, not really.

He doesn't wish them ill will, nor does he advocate throwing them in a nearby river. He wrote "For Jack Tymon," off of his album "Upside/Downside," for the son of his best friend, Shane (the motorcycle sales manager at Smoky Mountain Harley-Davidson in Maryville). In high school and college, back during his days in Virginia, he even worked with kids ranging from 11 to 17 during summers as a counselor at Boy Scout camp. (Miller, incidentally, holds the rank of Eagle Scout.)

But something about them ... that wide-eyed innocence and piercing stare and inquisitive nature ... well, it makes him uncomfortable. During a recent Daily Times photo shoot for the cover of this edition of Weekend, he spends most of the time with a deer-in-headlights look plastered across his face, not sure where to step or sit or stand as three toddlers run and scream and shout at his feet.

To be sure, at least one of the kids is familiar with his music. Over and over, the 3-year-old chants his name -- "Scott Miller! Scott Miller! Scott Miller!" The 1-year-old staggers on newly found legs, shoving maracas into his mouth and bouncing off of furniture and grown-ups like some human Superball. A third spins through the door like the Tasmanian Devil from the old "Looney Tunes" cartoons, tearing a path through the house before coming to rest at a toy piano.

As the camera flashes and parents coo and coax and the kids bang away on their makeshift instruments, Miller sits in a rocking chair, wincing uncomfortably between shutter clicks.

"If I was a member of Al-Qaeda, you could put me in that chair and 5 minutes later, I'd tell you anything you wanted to know," he mutters when all is said and done. "I'd give you my ATM number."

Kids, he believes, are the ultimate truth tellers. Put him on a stage full of grown-ups -- as he'll be on Saturday night at Smoky Mountain Harley-Davidson -- and he's in his element. He becomes the troubadour who puts everyone at ease. Whether he's spinning a historical yarn or a self-deprecating tale, he makes every guy want to drink a beer with him and every girl want to give him the kind of hug that's somewhere between a flirtatious embrace and that reserved for a male relative.

But kids ... well, they have a way of cracking that easygoing exterior, of getting to that place inside that he doesn't put on full display for the rest of us. They tap into that reservoir of self-doubt that Miller might occasionally trot out in some oblique manner in one of his songs.

In other words, they smell his fear. And that's a little too uncomfortable, a little too intimate, for his liking.

"They stare through my soul!" he says later, laughing. "They're brand new and helpless in the world, and they look at me and see the total terror behind my eyes. They think, 'This guy's bigger than me, and if he doesn't know what's going on, what chance do I have?' And they immediately start to cry."

Which, in a way, segues directly into the themes of his new album, "For Crying Out Loud." Released last week, it's a rumination on the tumultuous state of affairs in this country and one guy's reaction to it all. From the opening track, "Cheap Ain't Cheap (For Crying Out Loud)" to the introspective final ballad, "Appalachian Refugee," Miller continues to do what he's done well since his Friday night solo gigs at Hawkeye's, the joint on the Cumberland Avenue "Strip" where East Tennessee got its initial introduction to the boy from Virginia.

From there, he would go on to enjoy modest success, first with The V-Roys -- recent winners of the "Best Knoxville Band Ever" poll conducted by Metro Pulse -- and, after that group's dissolution, solo success on respected Americana label Sugar Hill. It's a story that's been told in the local media dozens of times, but with his new album and own label, he's ready to start a new chapter of the Scott Miller saga.

Miller started taking steps to get out of his Sugar Hill contract a couple of years ago, when digital downloads began to take their toll on all labels. His move was prescient, in a way; Sugar Hill shuttered its North Carolina offices, and instead of looking for a new home, he decided to build his own. It was time to do a new album, so he opted to do the whole thing independently -- doing it all himself.

"I don't have to sell as many records as in the past to turn a profit, because it's all mine -- I don't have to split anything with a label," he says. "But there's a trick to it, too -- I have to work double hard to get it to the fanbase that I've built. I love Sugar Hill -- it's a fine label of independence for 30-plus years, but a label does not make sense any more for top-of-the-middle artists, to steal a phrase from Jimmy Lester.

"A label makes sense if you're selling millions of records, but if you're like me and just making a living at it, you need to keep your money. Instead of letting them keep 88 cents on the dollar, you need to keep it. So, I formed my own record label, and there's this thing called the Internet where you can reach your fans directly. It's not as glamorous as The V-Roys being on Warner Bros. or E-Squared, but there's only one person to yell at, too, so it's all good."

It's hasn't been an easy task -- he has a handful of people on his team, but the bulk of the work has fallen on his shoulders. He financed "For Crying Out Loud" by releasing a limited edition collection of demos around the holidays. He got the record into the hands of critics and music journalists the old-fashioned way -- packaging and mailing every press kit himself.

He's under no delusions that his efforts will put him on Easy Street -- as much as he jokes about smoking fat cigars and riding around in a new Cadillac, he's pretty sure he'll be doing good to cover his bills and keep this career he's built for himself going. And really, that's about all he could hope for -- because it's not every day a farm boy from Virginia parlays a love of history, the South and mankind's intriguing struggles with love and liquor and getting by into a livelihood.

"It's not hard for me to stand up there every night and do this," he says. "I did it for four hours every Friday, and when you're doing that, it's just yourself and your song, and hopefully you're delivering a concise emotion or message. You're all about your song. And part of becoming comfortable with it was realizing I don't know how to do anything else.

"I can rhyme and play three chords and seem to be somewhat entertaining, so maybe this is what I need to be doing."