It is believed that the first insulin-pumping bloated, exploding vein party pop a balloon tragedy was when The Dutch brought over their oil cakes in the 1700s to North American soil. Thus creating a nation of obese, scooter riding, Walmart-loving, toothless flag-waving donut lovers. Sickly sugary death coma slithering in the puddles of pop-rock misfortune. If it is good enough for Homer it should be good enough for Nestter!
However, the story doesn't stop there in 1847 a sailor named Hanson Gregory was given these circles of pleasure by his dear old mother for a voyage that saw him attacked by wild restless tree people who devoured his holy of holiest donuts (apparently only leaving the hole!). Savages! Well, the story continues to get more exciting by the minute kiddos; in 1920 a man named Adolph Levitt invented the automated donut machine. This can also be attributed to the end of time and shapeless figures.
The God of one-man bands can only be attributed to one individual. You are right! the golden knockout belt and title would go to Hasil Adkins. Nestter of the Donut persuasion follows in the shadows of the coattails of Adkins lurking with dust bunnies and suckling on the breast of one-man bands. Alas, he will be engorged with the milk of human one-man-band kindness and explode all over this vast land reigning down little donuts for us to consume and gradually lay at the feet of the great Donut God like one may do for Lennon, Hendrix or Tiny Tim.
Nestter first got his start in Alicante/Barcelona when he was a young Tim Bit (look it up Non-Canadians!) born in 1993 to a Gypsy Flamenco Family. Nestter sought out the vilest, dirtiest, putrid, backwater venues to ply his trade as a traveling one-man band. He soon came into contact with THE TOURISTS (no not the band that once had Annie Lennox in it. I mean those annoying, disrespectful, littering, loitering loudmouths). It was here that Nestter ate through the British sounds of the day. (think Oasis, Blur, Radiohead, etc). The light had shone down on little Nestter; he now had the desire, passion, and vigor to create his own sound and develop it to take across the world uniting everyone in world peace and one love. Then he woke up. Zzzzzz.
Fuck that he arose to show the world his birthmark on the head of his little donut called Flamenco Trash. Ripe for the picking and ready to squish the juice out like a well-formed pressure-filled zit, chocked full of puss and blood enabling it to squirt all over Daddy’s coke mirror from the 80s.
Nester shoots lasers from his genitals, the proof is in the custard-filled jelly glazed. (check out the link to his video for proof).
More energy coming from this lone wolf compared to an Osmonds reunion of Crazy Horse full-on harlequin horseshit. An ineluctable journey through Donut's eyes of sin, debauchery, sweat, piss, and vapid vision and thus breathing soul into the bloodless corpse of eunuch ball-less fodder decorated as tiny gingerbread men without gumdrop buttons. Long Live The King of Flamenco Trash!
Come get naked with Nestter! at one of his live shows. Think G.G without the poop however this cat can actually sing like a canary in a coalmine!.
