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¡Lonesome Electric Honky Gabacho​!​: 7​/​1 of The Jugband Cannibala

by Honky Gabacho

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LXXI 03:31
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Taste of ozone in the air, His definitions are a throbbing fuzz 'n' There's a snap and a hum Between his cheek and his tongue, as Slender fingers start to shiver 'n' buzz. His lungs ignite like a neon wreath While staving off an attack of those Electric teeth, as Brilliant as it may be brief, His life flashes by in magnetic relief. Sparkhead Blues, aw, tell me What can you do When your mouth light' up the dark in a Crackling hue; Sparkhead eyes burn like vacuum tubes, he got those Neon-splattered, Static-smattered, Shattered sparkhead blues. Neon veins 'n' capillaries, he got Nerves of copper wire; Tiny bulbs all through his Motherboard skull, he got a Light-Emitting Desire. Hands take human form 'n' cool as his Eyes meet a tableaux of Snickers 'n' sneers, Ya know a beer stein of cheers Versus an ocean of jeers has left Many a better man thirsty for years, But in the name of the Father, Son of the Child, and of that Holy Ghost inside the radio dial, He'll give the heckles and taunts The kinda answers they wants As his crackling lips work to fight back a smile... It happened so fast, nobody could've known, As his atomic sigh stretched through the night, Just one bright green flash, now the smoke from their bones Is dancing up in slow coils by his incandescent light. Sparkhead Blues, Deaf, dumb and obtuse as Hands from the either start to Tighten the noose, 'n' Nowhere that you've been seems to have much use for those Neon spattered, Static-smattered, Scattered Sparkhead Blues. "¡Ooh, Sparkhead BLUES!" she cajoles 'n' taunts. She dares to split hairs with the Kid Savant, She'd better get herself grounded, 'cuz he's Gonna get mean, 'n' Light her up like a twenty-five cent Pinball machine. ¡Oh, Sparkhead Blues, I have the touch! Though it's ever-fleeting And never much, It's the only way Mere Mortals 'n' such can achieve Bent-circuit blowing of the fuse. ¡Oh, Sparkhead Blues, when you give 'em the juice, you're a Fluorescent Werewolf on the loose! And all the factions of dischord shall Come to a truce by that Neon-splattered, Static-smattered, Howl-'n'-patter of Feedback chatter; they'll Dance in chaos For ever-after by those Shattered Sparkhead Blues. Music and lyrics by Andy Klosenski, ©2008, recorded 2011.
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Boca Sovacos 04:06
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¡She got uh trans-dimensional boombox, bay-beh! She found a spot on its dial, So vulgar 'n' vile; ¡She got a cannibalistic jukebox, m'mahh! 'Gonna substitute her glitz fer guile... ...It was station WJBC, yeah, that's Where the pestilence first broke free, I'll tell ya, Like a neon hyena straddling the airwaves; Deep as an earthquake 'n' high as an airraid, With a throb 'n' patter Of ungodly chatter From each peculiar which the needle traversed, There were whorls 'n' ripples In the records' spirals, Like something viral Which her speakers dispersed. Now she's checking her posture 'gainst the Hum of a string, But her harmonics all bark now, instead of sing, And get a few more, uh, OVERTONES than she'd planned, Like strumming snakes in her belly with a skeleton hand... ¡She strummin' snakes in her belly with a skeleton hand, she go! These lines of hers swerve Instead of converge, Thwarting all purposeful Locomotion, Till she can't steer Her limbs, her mind veers, About, through and near this Vexing devotion. Her spine thus collapsed, 'n' all that remains Is a pelvis housing a blues-addled brain. With her last working limb, she reached for the plug Of the boombox, hoping to thwart that weird bug, But her brain and nerves, in a feedback circuit, Filled that limb up with noise till she forgot how to work it. ¿Now what kind of Boogie from a radio station Could cause such a bustle and cripple a nation? ¡No Rotation! Station to station, our brand of consumption Sets yer nerves t' swerve 'n' yer t-cells t' bumpin'. ¡No Rotation! So excuse our demeanor if we seem t'boast, We're just a boogie-woogie virus lookin' for a host. ¡No Rotation! 'Twas lean, but spacious, With a thirst voracious, And tendencies rapacious on the stem of the brain, Thus rend'ring it's victims Mere shivering systems Of flow and resistance for it's hiccuped refrains. And it spreads with the ease Of airborne disease With each pelvis it seized by the breadth of its maw; where mirages of heat Collide and compete, And morph, but repeat this new physical law. ¿Now, what kind of Boogie-logical agent Could yield such a harvest of stilted creation, and What kind of potion, From what kind of chalice, Could deliver us back from these Vibrations of malice? ¿Or can it be done Before we are rung Of our blood and our voices, Unpumped and unsung? ¿Is some Sorcerer lurking Behind some dark curtain, Twisting his mustache To see it is certain? A warbling specter falls through my vector, Darting, from station to station, As though it physically plays off My quizzical chaos In a fit of turbulent creation... She no longer protects her Slow-weeping nectar, as I Suckle it's sweet libations; She'll kiss m'chin, Lick her lips 'n' grin, Transmitting a whisper to tear through MY din, she say, "¡No Rotation!" Lyrics and music by Andy Klosenski, ©2011

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released August 26, 2011

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Honky Gabacho Dover, New Hampshire

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