|
|
As I was telling the departing art center director, it's tough being a Clash fan in the Virginia country. Not much call fer that punkie mewsik hereabouts. But, as the twig is bent, so the tree inclines. No count as a southern boy. My blasphemy, and shame... disliking the Linnit Skinnit song, "Free Bird." Yes, I know how to spell their name. Don't need Google hits on that. There'd be Harleys in the yard laying seige. "Dislike" is too strong a word. "Weary" is more fitting. Weary, ten years and five million listens ago. I think it's the constant repetition of anything that brings out the cynic. Commercials, movies, songs in heavy rotation. Too much sensory bombardment too often, and the thrill is gone. Don't decide for me what is cool, or what I must hold dear, is the message here. And so it is with "Free Bird." The field party solemn hymn. Weepy intro, followed by bottle-throwing head-bang. Perfumed with Jack Black, and the reek of beer and urine mashed into wet grass. The song my brother's crowd worshipped, while plowing him with bourbon... accelerating his diabetic downfall. But, if you don't like Skinnit, you ain't Ahmurricun. I recall a hazy night festival, some time ago. A shirtless, majorly fucked-up scraggle-head commandeered the stage mike... and led the sermon, slurring, "Ya'all come ta potty? Ya'all dinn' come ta potty, getha'fugouttaheah!" Word. A house party, some time after... the fifth playing of that goddamn thing in the course of the evening, squeezed out the comment of how I wished that I had a dollar for every time it scraped on the turntable. Well, you coulda heard a pin drop. Instant silence. At any time the noose would be my necktie. At a field party in the mountains, with the snake-handler I lived with... the same thing. Another close shave. Its place in history is undeniable. Martyrs for the southern cause immortalised. Fine for them. Still hits my gag reflex. This bird you'll never change. I would have said that the day was lifeless and dreary, tinted in shades of dark grey... until I noticed the trees. Old School TechniColor�. Good thing I wasn't doing and substances... or I'd be in detox now. An unlikely day off... to move furniture and box up books and bric-a-brac. Paving the way for window replacement, tomorrow, keeping the bulls away from the china. It'll be a cold bitch in this house, with three-quarters of the portholes opened to the wind. Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce. |
|
|
