Countrymusik på gränsen

Loshult Lineman sjunger personliga och jordnära country/folksånger om avfolkningsbygd, arbetarklassidentitet, motorcyklar, förlegade mansroller och kvinnliga hjältar. Det är uppriktighet, kärlek och humor med skit under naglarna. Ursprunget är uppenbart. Med stadigt fotfäste i Gränsbygden är låtarna som förtroliga samtal vid köksbordet medan kaffet kallnar.

Musiken är enbart utgiven i digital form.

Loshult Lineman sings personal and down-to-earth country/folk songs about depopulation, motorcycles, working class identity, outdated male roles and female heroes. It's humor, sincerity and love played with dirty hands. The local position is obvious. With a steady foothold in the border country, the songs are like small talks at the kitchen table while the coffee gets cold.

Only digital releases.

LYRICS

WE CAN´T KEEP HIM

You picked a funny pet without knowing that we would get a house full of dirty fur and chew marks on the furniture. A dribbling yapping hairball with a breath like rotten fish.

We know that you picked that dog but we can't keep him. No we can't keep him.
He barks at the neighbours here. Birds and squirrels have disappeared. The mailman won't come around. No bitch likes our nasty hound. And all this indoor shitting has put the value down.

We know that you picked that dog but we can't keep him. No we can't keep him.
We better put this to an end. That beast ain't mans best friend. Do you think we will regret if we don't take him to the vet. Grandma and our dear friends won't visit us no more.

We know that you picked that dog but we can't keep him. No we can't keep him.

TWO BROTHERS

Grandpas funeral was really fine. Family gathered for a last goodbye. There in the back row sat two old men with single roses in their hands. When they stepped forward to the coffin my mother said that grandpa knew them well. Two brothers with a small barber shop in the village where grandpa lived.
Grandpa was a talking machine. He went on and on til our ears got sore. We got all details from his daily life, even if we wanted or not. And as he cut his hair quite often we all heard the story a hundred times or more, about

Two brothers with a small barber shop in the village where grandpa lived.
Grandpa, it's so silent here now. You didn't tell us all about those two. Like that one of them was short and grey. The other one tall and bald. They looked more like a sweet old couple that kept their secret all along as

Two brothers with a small barber shop in the village where grandpa lived.

DON´T WRITE ME A FUCKING LOVESONG

I've been sitting all day long, trying to write her a special song that express my feelings for her. Digging deeper in my soul, looking for the story's gold, and it makes me aware of the fact how hard it is to find the words.
Don't write me a fucking lovesong, she said. Don't bring me that singer songwriter shit. Don't write me a fucking lovesong, she said. Wash up the dirty dish instead.
Well, it comes to my creative mind that I might belong to that silly kind that never have done a real honest work. 'Cause I can't cook. I can't drive. I can't bring broken cars alive, and I can't seem to make some people realize just how hard it is to find the words.

Don't write me a fucking lovesong, she said. Don't bring me that singer songwriter shit. Don't write me a fucking lovesong, she said. Do the laundry instead.

She's a poet. An artist with a flow. I can tell you that because I truly know how hard it is to find the words.

Don't write me a fucking lovesong, she said. Don't bring me that singer songwriter shit. Don't write me a fucking lovesong, she said. Take out the trash can instead, or maybe feed our hungry kid instead, or just put down the guitar and go to bed.

BORDER TOWN

Johnny left his small town home when the factory closed down. He drove towards the sun til he saw the sea. Now he's making coffe here for you and me.
Border town, a water hole for ramblers all around. Come hillbillies and hipsters, bring the sound. Wherever you may come from, refugee welcome to border town.
Katie went on a rainbow trail when they found out she was queer. And the treasure was this colorful square. Fruits and greens everyday, growing there.
Border town, a water hole for ramblers all around. Come hillbillies and hipsters, bring the sound. Wherever you may come from, refugee welcome to border town.
Ali ran from the raging war. No family, no home. The twisted tower showed all sides from one place. A promising vision on that bridge of grace.
Border town, a water hole for ramblers all around. Come hillbillies and hipsters, bring the sound. Wherever you may come from, refugee welcome to border town.

SUFFRAGETTE TRAIL

I put my guitar in the bag, the helmet on my head, and the money in my purse. Stepping off the stage. Pushing through the rage, and rough mens curse.

My motorbike dont give a shit about gender roles, and my guitar, well it sure ain´t male. Man, you got a great roadhouse, but I got to go down that old Suffragette trail.

Near the door behind a beer a tough guy saving every tear. I bet you know the kind. A hidden sensibility. No keys to set it free. All the beauty locked inside.

My motorbike dont give a shit about gender roles, and my guitar, well it sure ain´t male. Man, you got a great roadhouse, but I got to go down that old Suffragette trail.

Outside at the parking lot, a wide horizon and a clear blue sky. I hang the guitar on my back and grab the bars when someone stick his head out and cry "why?"

My motorbike dont give a shit about gender roles, and my guitar, well it sure ain´t male. Man, you got a great roadhouse, but I got to go down that old Suffragette trail.

I'M MOVING ON

The working class is a bunch of losers. Keep dragging eachother down. Hear the laughs from jet set cruisers. Sisters and brothers, I ain´t no clown.

I'm moving on.

The middle class will walk and pet you, but they wont let you stay inside. Spend a lifetime trying how to. Hell no, I got my own ride.

I'm moving on.

I'm a constant rambler, oh man, freewheeling on the borderline. Writing poetry in motion. Come along lets run down the signs.

Well I can sit and take it easy. Share a moment where you stay. But no roots will hold me. You see, my mind keep blowing me away.

I'm moving on.

HEADING BACK TO OSBY

There's a little sleepy village in the south of Sweden with these green fields all over the place. Nothing changes but the seasons and that is one of the reasons why I left and still come back amazed.

I'm heading back to Osby to see my friends and family once again. I'm heading back to Osby, and I guess that I will do it to the end.

Every lawn that you can see in this narrowminded community we've runned with movers like some lost recruits. Born and tangled, more or less, in oppressive laddishness. It grows like weed til you cut the roots.

I'm heading back to Osby to see my friends and family once again. I'm heading back to Osby, and I guess that I will do it to the end.

Mary run, you'll catch the train. Leave behind the grass stains. See you somewhere further down the road on your way home.

I'm heading back to Osby to see my friends and family once again. I'm heading back to Osby, and I guess that I will do it to the end.

WALL OF DEATH

We try to make a living with this motordrome. Take it down and rebuild it where ever we may roam. And from miles around people come to see her race.

She ride The Wall of Death. My love surround her.

From the pipes to the spark plug, my girl work it out. She know all the parts of that old Indian Scout. I drive the truck and hold her every night.

She ride The Wall of Death. My love surround her.

The motor roar in the barrel. Smell of oil and gasoline. She is ready in the saddle, my daredevil racing queen. And the show begins. Another fearless round.

She ride The Wall of Death. My love surround her.