Sonic's Rendezvous

When I hear a live recording from a great band from 1978 that was never very popular but always brought the juice…an artifact of distribution…fossilized access…my ears only a stop along an infinite highway of auditory receptions…the shivers of primitive neurology in a tsunami…counting points along a topography stretching in either direction…the knowing doled out in discrete apportionments like a secret handshake…carried on the waves like particles…converging…the aside about the guitar that drops out during the bridge…it’s like you’re talking to me with feathered hair, man…or with a spacesuit on…waiting on the promontory of an arena with a Chesterfield…fuzz-fearful, and holding…but tomorrow, for you, the Betamax; digital-ized now, dig-it-al-ized…for the future…and they come too…stranger to me than your butterfly collar…lookin all eighteenth century, sportin gigantic craniums and missing their pinky fingers…but not that drum-fill…not that wah-solo on eleven…no, not even the singer’s cranked-out moan…even though they don’t know what crank was…and we party like it’s 2089, 1723, 545 B.C…and we talk about starting a band…and we write songs that kick ass and stick to your eardrums like cotton candy in July…July: do we still have that then?…and we’ll leave it for you…dig-it-al-ized…we share a joint and the guy without a pinky has a seizure…then feathered hair has one…then I get all shaky…the shivers of primitive neurology in a tsunami…and we remain…by the box…ear to ear…until the encore.