Monday, May 18, 2009

You got that screaming tenor horn, dude. You got that rock and roll. You got your driving beat. You got your summer heat. You got all that sweet, sweet female meat - jumpin' jivin' soul survivin' and hangin' out on the street.

You got that jive he's chanting; it's riding that bass line like it's on a brand new groove line, downtown to uptown, any which way, but right on time. Always right on time. No fair runnin' late.

You'll never get over it, dude.

Roll up a pack of Luckies in your t-shirt sleeve and hit the streets when it's hot, man. Down at the shore. Up in Newark, over by Cherry Hill Township. Give it a shot, man. We call it the refinery. That's what it is.

Check out the "Stray Cat Blues" for a change. Shift gears and give it up to "Be Bop A Lula."

You know, like, all my friends got it, so it must be goin' around, saith Carl Perkins at the birth of rock - and you roll, dude.

You roll.

Got to let your backbone slip, walk with a hip slung strut, leather jacket draped over your left shoulder, engineer boots with the horseshoe taps striking fire from the pavement, your blue suede tenny-shod feets pounding that street, smokin' that crack and lookin' back.

But I warn you, mister. If you walk this way, walk on the wild side, man, if you do, don't be lookin' back because whatever is behind you is definitely gaining on you. Thus spach Satch Paige of the storied and fabled Negro Leagues.

And you rock And you roll.

That's what I be talkin' about, man.

Go. String 47 miles of barbed wire. Wear a cobra snake for a necktie. And then take a little walk with me, honey, and tell me who do you love.

Hoodoo ya' love, baby.

Thus spach Bo Diddley. We gone. Beep beep.

The Legendary

p.s. What I mean, when you dig Bruce, you dig a dude puttin' on his trash - flashin' his trash - with all the grand tradition implicit in that high walk of tragicomic American jive, my man. It's a solid lock, a family tradition. They all be doin' it, man. They all do it.


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