Don’t Mess With David Thomas Broughton

David Thomas Broughton stands 18-floors tall tonight.
Air-conditioned against the maelstrom of Historic 6th Street.
High above this "so-called" Live Music Capitol Of The World.
When Vivian Stanshall died in a Muswell Hill
house-fire in 1995, he left behind no male heir.
Enter stage-left, pursued by wingless ecoparasite,
this former data-analyst and conservation officer
from the West Riding Lands of God’s Own Yorkshire.
A one-man band for the DIY Loop-Station generation.
Forever delayed. Forever detuned. Forever thankfully askew.
Broughton is not just the organ-grinder, but the Capuchin monkey also.
A proud purveyor of his own unique brand of
tribo-electrically charged spectral digi-folk.
The long lost link between Eric Morecambe,
Peter Bellamy and the BBC Radiophonic Workshop.
Ploughing and harrowing his own spontaneous furrow.
His deadpan jowl super-glued to deadpan cheek.
Spinning straw into a woolen rainbow. Collecting cabbages on the head of a pin.
Making Austin truly weirder with every rape-alarm he chooses to sample.
A David Thomas Broughton gig is an event. A spectacle. A true happening.
His shenanigans but momentaneous. His yearnings so sweet and discordant.
Twinned with the sound of one prosthetic hand clapping,
David Thomas Broughton burns whilst Texas slowly fiddles.
Your answers please, on a stamped undressed elephant in the room.

DTB on the streets of Austin Texas (2009)