Thursday, March 15, 2012

Comin' out of the Styx on Highway Six -

Another man done gone...

YAKKETY sax, rapping my ear, come hither, hear. Every building a temple, every song a prayer, comin' at ya in stereo - right through the air. Said the lady, "There was a time, really and truly, when dee-jays were it, man. What they thought, what they said, it all really mattered."

Said I, "Yeah, and the mix was totally eclectic. You might Hear The Beatles - for the first time - doing a Smoky Robinson tune, then segue into Fats and on through Neil Diamond or maybe even George Jones for the possum-faced, no-show cussedness of the whole affair." Jones, dee-jay, Marine, poet-warrior of the neon bar wars. Richardson, big-bopping cat with a deep bass and a white boy's sense of rhythm. Everywhere, anywhere, Shaky Town to the Mardi Gras, the Dome, the Motor City and The Apple, folks playing what they wanted to hear, what they knew the listeners would dig - a very professional gig.

Yeah. What did they do with all that? Why, they got down to the heart and soul in every man, woman, and child - put it in syncopated Caribbean tones, styled it real, real wild. Why, they put it in a tree museum, and they charge the people a dollar and a half just to see them. Yeah.

How do I know? Why, I heard it, I heard it, I heard it on the X. Yeah.

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