LOSHULT LINEMAN

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LOSHULT LINEMAN - countrymusik på gränsen (2018)

Spotifysingel (MARANG007)

 

I en mix av country, soul och folk sjunger Loshult Lineman personliga och jordnära sånger om avfolkningsbygd, arbetarklassidentitet, motorcyklar, förlegade mansroller och kvinnliga hjältar. Det är uppriktighet, kärlek och humor med skit under naglarna. Ursprunget är uppenbart. Loshult Lineman låtsas inte komma från den amerikanska södern. Med stadigt fotfäste i Göingemyllan är låtarna som förtroliga samtal vid köksbordet medan kaffet kallnar.

Bakom bandnamnet står musikern och serietecknaren Mats Källblad.

 

 

In a mix of country, soul and folk, Loshult Lineman sing personal and earthy songs about depopulation, motorcycles, working class identity, outdated male roles and female heroes.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. Loshult Lineman don't pretend to come from the American South. In a genre that holds a lot of self-pitying males Loshult Lineman stand out as a keen unpolished hillbilly feminist.

Behind the name is the musician and comic artist Mats Källblad.

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 aint 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 aint 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 aint 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 aint 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.

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