Archive for September, 2010
Hellhounds and demons chasing through the dark night of the soul sniffing out the smell of sin and fear on the way to the kill. Too late now, gotta stay on the move and avoid the inevitable all while trying to find redemption. It’s the classic story of a trip to the cross roads gone bad…
I utilized a tuning that my nephew, Kyle, introduced me to. It’s fitting to the subject of the song.
Sometimes you just get tired of being tired like an old man slumping his way toward Jerusalem and you have to break out of the funk and yet, somehow, get in touch with your funky self. Early evening at the house hanging and wishing something, anything, was going on craving human contact and no plans to carry you through. Jump on the motorbike and go in search of music and crowded loud sweaty get-together in the real world.
Rev up the motorbike and roll your way into the city, listening to the wind waiting to hear the music draw you in. Eventually, you see it… the marquee aglow with the promise of good times, and you pull in ready to hear the beats and tap your feets while downing a couple of brews. This is the High Life, and you are ready to partake.
Go in, rent your coat and have a seat at the bar. You see the bartender and you say, “Hey man, get down here!” and he comes over and he says, “What you want?”…One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer…
And the band comes on…
They’re playing hard and fast, like a Vegas gambler down his luck, hoping that speed and agility will overcome the odds and then she walks in.
The Big Bad Wolf wishes he could be a puppy, once again. Dancing and talking; introductions, “I’m a nurse,” she sez. “I might have to get sick,” he replies. “I’m in Deliveries…I only do women.” “Just my luck,” he sez, “I meet a pretty girl and she only does women…”
“Oh, you’re funny.”
Well, if you can’t be young and handsome, might as well be amusing.
Car bombs and shots and “this is why it’s good to make friends with the bartenders” and more shots and beer. Dances come and go…two on one then face to face and the motorbike wants its turn.
A gargoyle replaced by an angel in red, the bike glows from within, satisfied that it finally gets its just desserts.
Old bike, sweet young thing combining in the cool Autumn night to produce a whole greater than the sum of their parts.
Motorbike, music, booze, pretty girls and coffee…the weary old wolf heads home, happy with the night. Happy to end a a difficult week on a high note.
I wanna be a rockabilly rebel…
Kicking like a mule to start the beast rolling and snorting and bucking across the landscape arms thrown wide music from the pipes serenading the world the planets the entire Universe as a tiny speck moves throught the motorcycling cosmos. 1970 end of an era start of an age bellbottoms aviators and feathered hair blowing in the wind. Rev it up, man! Rev it up and gogogo!
The hooligan screams through the night and into the arms of the waiting sun as straights and plebes sleep through the dark magic of the moon. Smoky burnouts in front of the cop shop blowing down South Broadway at 100+ erase those chicken strips in the hills and call it a morning, eating at the King with the Vietnamese mafia eying each other nervously and caressing the guns in their waistbands and the chickies in the spandex dresses. Three cylinders roar the primordial call to the lost boys, a low-flying Cessna skimming the landscape of the urban jungle.