The Nixxon Story in Five Installments -- Part 1

ARTICLE 1: The Monkey is always Hairier on the Other Side of the Cage

It has been said that The Swingin' Love Corpses, seminal Acid Folk Huckabilly pranksters, have forged a legacy of improvisational wizardry and sheer creative vitality unparalleled in the history of modern popular musicology. Those who dare challenge the notion risk dashing their credibility, nay, their very intellectual rigor, against the rocky and tumultuous shoreline of the worldwide cultural acclaim these latter-day geniuses of aural manipulation have garnered.

But what can be said of these living legends may be more often the evidence of their omnipresent effect on the tapestry of humankind. By analyzing their followers and the myriad folkways spawned in the ecstatic throes of adulation and careless abandon they exhibit, one may but view a mere glimpse of the pervasive influence these artistic giants have had on the landscape of contemporary civilization.

It may be the childlike squeals of delight as mindless "Bobbies" swarm to their rusting yet colorful sticker-adorned urban assault vehicles as they prepare to head out on the open highways and byways in a Kerouacian pilgrimage to some far-flung SubGenius devival. The sounds of the Swingin' Love Corpses cry out like some lonely yet fond remembrance of a distant train whistle echoing in the wind, reminding us of the innocence of youth and better days gone by.

Or perhaps the low-frequency rumble of a single-stringed electric bass instrument throbbing like the thundering impact of the collosal loins of prehistoric beasts coupling in the dark and fetid cityscape, somewhere under an interstate overpass. Or the acrid smell of brewery waste by-products spewing into the night in a hulking edifice once home to long forgotten industry now converted to the sleaziest of juke-joint; joy-jumping, gyrating geeks and jezebels gimbal wildly under ethanol influence, often made more maddening and complex by the wafting odorless treachery of polychlorinated biphenyls illegally slurried down a clandestinely architected sump deep in the bowels of this corner-market of social depravity.

Or the smarmy, self-righteous attitudes of unwitting subjugates; government-within-a-government jack-booted thugs poring over the unintelligible layered noise tone-poems craftily inserted backward, even inside-out between the tracks of seemingly insignificant snippets of jam-sessions perhaps decades-old, now surfacing in the ocean of media -- uncannily finding their way into the firewalls and spam-snag-algorithm directories of the Conspiracy's ever-intruding "Homeland Security" computer systems where it they perform their magic by leading the dupes of chaos down the ever dwindling spiral of misinformation.

Thus even the least credible soundbyte garbage heap becomes the scion of hope spreading tentacles of influence into the composting rot of authority. Yes, even this is the herald's trumpet of the Heirs to Humanity. Dare it be denied?!

But how would Dr. Nixxon come to join up with this mythical band of gypsies? Where would this strange, yet destined alliance move the currents of emotion and shatter so many popular illusions? And how would such a seemingly perfect union be sundered by the foul unseen forces of NeeGhee?


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