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A swarthy, horned figure emerged behind the beleaguered carnival tent flaps. Jumping from the black chasm of darkness into the bright shinning spotlight, wielding a battle claimed six string guitar in his mammoth left hand and a disfigured human skull in the right. Into an eye socket he blew, cupping the other making an un-holy melody; All the while stamping his leathered Earth pads in a tight, rhythmic primordial dirge all around the rickety, wooden, dust strewn stage. Jolting to life, playing a strange mixture of spaghetti western trumpets, surf-rock drums and reverb drenched electric guitars, a band transformed the small canvas tent into a melee of excitement and sound. And all began to moan. Grown men began to cheer. Middle aged, conservative women squealed in delight. Young girls violently shook their burgeoning womanhood. Bookkeepers, librarians, even robed clergy could not contain their inner, dark, sexual desires as the music enveloped their bodies and souls. This is the music of El Capitan and the Band With No Name. Raw. Sexual. Fierce.