"'I sailed a ship across the sea/A fine little girl waiting for me/On the ship I dreamed she there/Smelled aroma...the roses...the Romilar...down in her hair.' No doubt I sucked. Nobody cared. In fact they were in ecstasy. So who knows, maybe I didn't suck.... Hey, you, World--I DON'T SUCK, GODDAMMIT!!!!!"
Detroit, dark night, Detroit lights twinkling across and reflecting off a black shimmering expanse that seemed like a blackened two-way mirror showing both sides of neurotic Detroit, shimmering because it was erupting, yet still and flat like a sheet of black steel and reflecting as though a mirror, the real, the mirror image, or was it vice versa? And as we crossed over a huge bridge and were lifted up slightly above downtown Detroit, I caught Girl's face in the Invicta's rearview mirror and she was looking right into my eyes. I was melting. I was getting jittery. I needed a drink. I needed a shower. I needed to shit. But hell love makes you forget the simplest of bodily functions for the most serious of mind-fuckings, those vibes cocky gorgeous girl-like babes sent flying into your wild imagination-filled loins when you were a young male full of himself, the world, and the need of women--God-dammit!!!!!, I love that little saucy piece of ass looking back at me from that elongated mirror up there while she's driving her car head on over this crushing down-on-me black steel bridge, that black water under that bridge rushing up at me in that darkness. I looked up at that rearview mirror again. The Detroit skyline was punctuated by Girl's brown eyes, "a brown-eyed girl," and dammit this was long before that Irish ripper-offer Van Morrison spun Chuck Berry's "Brown-eyed Handsome Man" into a "Brown-eyed Girl," and this was "My Girl," speaking future Detroit music, and future Detroit music was coming blasting now at me--why hadn't I noticed the radio before? maybe it couldn't pick up the Detroit station until we were almost into Detroit; that was it, I yawned, it all having to do with radio waves and interferences, just like life--as long as you ride the waves you're safe; an interference comes, then you start caterwauling out a blues.
One of the inventors of Rock 'n Roll, and the boyz and girlz at Creem would agree (clue!!! I'm being enigmatic), Chuck Berry caught right in the sweet middle of a hot duck walk.
"Hail, hail Rock and Roll! Deliver us from the days of old! Long-live Rock and Roll!" The maestro of Rock and Roll in the pure-dee middle of an early-days duck walk. Man, dig his pedal extremeties! And check out that guitar! And check out that old Fender Twin Reverb back there--that's what it is isn't it? Nobody could match Chuck for lyrics, back beat, and nobody ever has learned to play the guitar like he did at his best--I know of only one guitar player who mastered it and I was proud to serve time in several bands with the dude; if you've been paying attention you'd know I'm talking about Jesus Christ, the guitar player from Brooklyn and not the nutjob Christians savior. And that's what Rock and Roll was supposed to do, "Deliver us from those days of old," meaning the relationship between blacks and whites in this country; that's what Chuck was delivering us from, those days of segregation, of apartheid in this country, those days of Jim Crow, that's what Rock and Roll was supposed to do--but, oh no; the music industry was determined to see that the music business was never integrated; hell no; Capitalism depends on divisions, markets they can be called, sales areas, anyway, Capitalism depends on segregation to create markets so it can sell its quantities of products it's constantly overproducing. Rather than giving our black musicians their due, credit for inventing Rock and Roll, etc., they brought these cheesy imitation black British church mode bands over here by the droves--hell, the Brits couldn't make money in England--they had a 100% tax in England on everything over 100,000 pounds--but over here, the Brit boys worked cheap because the bucks they made here they banked here and offshore--all bands are eventually controlled by crooked lawyers and accountants--SHIT, you catch my drift, I hope--and it wasn't just Chuck Berry who really invented Rock and Roll and intended for it to go in a certain direction, away from those days of old, but it was Ike Turner, too; Ike Turner played a big, big roll in inventing Rock and Roll, starting as a DeeJay in Greenville, Mississippi, the pure-dee heart of the blues nation, the Delta blues nation, where it all came from anyway, the heart nation also of Rock and Roll--and when the record industry Europeanized our music by bringing the British invasion upon us, it all had to do with profits, my friends--all kinds of different record bins in Tower Records, or whatever the latest big chain record store calls itself these days, the more bins the more diversity, the more diversity, the more customers--big chain record stores now come and go as fast as top ten bands and singers and trends come and go [And by the by, I listened to Kelly Clarkson last night singing in a special tribute to herself, the sweet little naive innocent saintly first-time star of Rupert "Crass Ass" Murdoch's own private little teevee show, American Idol, and listen to me, folks, she was flat; she had no sense of feeling for her song at all, totally uninspiring, except to the little budding squealy girls who are still pissing in their pants they're so easily thrilled--and Kelly was flat in her pitch and she was flat in her presentation and as far as I know, she's flat chested. Case closed. American music today SUCKS. You know why? World music sucks. You know why? It's purely commercial music--manufactured music--music generated by scraggly ass nerdy white guys who command the boards of million-dollar recording studios--God, I'm getting wolfishly angry--I mean, I need'a growl at that god-damn moon. "Going by the river/On a real moonlighty night...."
[Short but sweet, folks.] [Are short folks sweet?] [Sweet folks are short of ....]
To be continued as everything is continued because without continuence nothing is ever done.
for The Daily Growler