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\”Inhale, and it is immediately apparent that they are bent on fostering addiction.\” ib

Those people closest to Ernestó Agnursson did not need to subscribe to the cloud. When he made his music the whole favela stopped to listen.      Infants stopped pawing at their mother\’s breast. Bakers stopped baking their bread.      He stuttered. He whistled. He rumbled and growled.      There was more weight in his small intestine than in a pedal drum. His teeth chattered. His anus rattled, occasionally rang like a cowbell on a Yamaha Boom.      Ernestó Agnursson was a one man orchestra.      Where the Ministry conspired with the Big Fruit to trick the pygmies into paying a monthly stipend for their fix, Ernestó Agnursson was an affront. A slap in the face. A threat to the bottom line.      King Asbo first met Ernestó Agnursson in a barbershop in Easterhouse.      When Ernestó dropped by to trade recital for shave and trim.      Where the old colonialists reign in small print, and the royal pen skips with the minute hand over death row, the introduction came quite by accident.      The king sat in the big chair. Working at a cigar while the barber\’s scissors danced. By the time he promised to make Ernestó a prince he was bald as a poor man\’s bicycle tyre.       The king knew everything there was to know about the science of sound.       He could strip it back to its essence just by listening to it.       In his youth he ran electrical repairs from his mother\’s house. Shotguns barked. Ice cream vans exploded. Asbo did not hear them. He was up to his elbows in the physics of transfiguration.       He built a radio transmitter from the ground up. The Ministry tore it down. He built another. He disseminated Hometown Hi-Fi and flew the black flag.       The king listened to Ernestó Agnursson and knew all that was needed was a little echo. Reverb. A half twist on the high-pass filter.       Like an old school instrument of wrath, Ernestó worked straight out the box.

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