Whitney Elixabeth

Some say of Whitney Elixabeth that she alone bore witness to the assembly of our cosmos, that she and none more beheld the placement of burning alabaster stars and planets upon the nothing-blanket of space. Some whisper to awed, frightened children that Whitney Elixabeth is the conductor and orchestrator of all things good and terrible in the world – she awakens the morningtime birds and whistles to them inspiriting melodies, she curates metropolitan museums in which cursed and forbidden artifacts of the profane ancient times we have forcedly forgotten are housed, she lances sunlight rays through black tornado clouds during hopeless twilights, she churns the immeasurable cauldron of magma at Earth’s core to insure that volcanic upchuck is especially hot, she humbly returns fond memories to those who have lost them to trauma or to age or to an asymptomatic withering of the will. Still some hypothesize Whitney Elixabeth to be an immortal and elemental thing sewn skillfully into a body of youthful appearance, and that, if one looks closely, stitches are visible along the inner creases of her arms; should these sutures rupture, and when they do, another great age of transfiguration will wrest the Earth and it shall be recast in the architectural terrain she so chooses.

Others maintain Whitney Elixabeth’s human-ness, and written testimonies exist by those who claim to have seen her on separate occasions laugh, eat, cry, sneeze, and bleed; of the authors of these testimonies, all have vanished shortly after the drying of their inked signatures, all of their whereabouts are unknown. Excerpts from the aforementioned writings, when combined, roughly outline a mortal life of itinerant wanderings absent of any clear lineage, point of departure, or intended destination. Her exact age is undetermined, her height varies grotesquely from observer to observer, her dental records have never been found, and her political leanings remain unrevealed. The make and brand of her guitar are likewise mysterious, though it is widely believed that its body is hewn from the petrified wood of Noah’s Ark and that its strings (so luminous and resonant) are in fact indestructible strands of Samson’s hair so fine that they are only visible when strummed and vibrating. Whitney Elixabeth is said to have followed the degenerating spine of American railroad, up and down, for two decades in the least, espied by passing hobos and often mistaken for illusion or specter, stopping only to feed animals downed by bullet or motor and sing to those worldbeaten men and women weary for elevation.

If conjecture is to be believed, Whitney Elixabeth presently roams the steamy recesses of the Texas landscape, guitar and banjo crisscrossing her shoulders, harmonica clasped betwixt her razor teeth, visions of mythology forever in her thoughts, spooling unceasingly like film in a derelict drive-in projector. Whether blossoms or pestilence grows in her footsteps is unconfirmed. --Nathan Baran

Joe Constantine
Booking Agent
Cardboard Box Music
www.cardboardboxmusic.com
Austin, TX 78752
512-828-9010
928-773-1077