No doubt PUJOL can light a fire with jaunty folk-punk that's a favorite from coast to coast, and from Impose to Third Man. But there's an extra benefit to a fan of the PUJOL: his explanatory fiction.
Daniel Pujol has been putting some words together to go along with illustrations from Alexa Zoe Savant in a weekly column called EGGS, hosted by Nashville Cream. Instead of quick and dirty like his songs, these are crazy-fused-up sentences that comma splice whole thoughts together, as if Daniel Pujol lived in Infinite Jest.
That's not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it's a nice contrast to PUJOL's other nasty, brutishly short work.
Try this from the recent 'Old Lady':
Somewhere in between Old and Young, where age has no meaning, and Awareness' fingers play cat's cradle with strings of gut, where Fairness wrote no score, and Justice held no tune, plucking a drone of whale-song, a sonic lighthouse of nautical stealth: The One, that warms my Core, that threatens Its absence, that burns like hot coins beneath the skin, that kills like wet socks, that is blasted in the Lobby of the Womb, that was my Number that spelt my Name, that was called that caught my attention, that I can not yet understand, but glacially cruise through Lots and Life, humming in step, between the blades of the fan, strutting toward the guillotine with an apple on my head, proud as “I Am.”
That's some deep mythology and I only picked up half the sentence.
A chapbook publisher needs to scoop these EGGS up and bring them into the world, because PUJOL is blowin up.
