son, that ain’t rock’n’roll…

so a gig last night at “roasted addiction” tryin’ out the new maton and the new passac pre-amp… fiddlin, strummin, whistlin, hummin, singin’ songs of freedom and chaos and drifting on… i turn to see comin’ at me from across the street struttin’ to some unheard of random beat tho?probably four four?wild eyed ruling the air waves grey and bold sailing unsold Scorey as hell… Mike Scorey, one of the dudes who influences me?in this world of sounds.. a rock’n’rolla from ‘nam battle fatigues of denim, op shop docs and leather?weather beaten younger than most you can see it in the eyes wild and alive to the sound of drums inside and the flying by kingsland nites delights… i play?lou reed?to see if?he takes the mic for a song but he’s chilled with?cigarettes?and something on the rocks and zeb talkin on the side walk?table-side seats another time?maybe..


?flailing falling the sound aint quite right and the nerves are marauding inside like wolves tonight loose and viscious looking for something to eat why!? do i do this? “don’t bite your finger nails son that aint rock’n’roll” and on it goes… collisions colliding kaleidescopes clashing irrationally ranting too fleeting to flay or interrogate… see through i die ressurected i fly for a moment on high wings of lead hold me tight…. we kick back relaxed the gig’s?done they clapped… swap notes on our travels and i mourn the loss of a blundstone…?the lads are off to rock’n’roll while i fall from the heights hopin’ it’ll be alright… awaken from dreams of jamming with Knopfler not again yes again…


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