The bar is always busy. Cheap drinks. A throw-back anomaly in the hood. Sports on the TVs. A small stage with a crappy P.A. ancient cables and mics. The clientele is decidedly young, with a few old-timers elbowed up to the bar. Everyone seems intent on getting trashed.
The crowd was loud. They were there to drink and carouse, not to listen to music. We took the stage and decided to command the room by turning our amps up to max volume. At war with the crowd. Guitars and drums our tools of sonic-destruction. We blazed through our set at a breakneck speed, with a few long, and crazed, instrumental jams.
The vocals were buried in the mix. Terrible mics and cables. But the band never sounded better. We were unhinged, unruly, total, maximum r&r. Much sound & fury signifying not too much except the glory of r&r. Was it good? For us, totally. It was totally exhilarating. There we moments of complete lift-off. When we kicked into a bluesy, gnarly version of the Beatles Come Together, folks actually sang-a-long. That was a surprise.
Aftwards a pool of sweat. Total cleanse. Too hyped to be tired. Think Sisyphus with a Telecaster, rolling that stone, no, levitating that stone up the hill, via the noisy vibrations emanating from my guitar; blazing into the night, blazing into the void. Damn the freaking Torpedoes...