(Don't let her memory torture me.)
I have written myself into the ground. My hands hurt, my arms ache, my brain is mush. I feel like I don’t have another word left in me tonight. And I’m wracked with guilt over all the calls I haven’t returned and all the emails I have yet to send. If there was ever a time to hide in a quiet Tennessee hollow, this is it. Because it’s fucking August, and I attempt to create while cities turn into overheated ghost towns. Even the fucking Iraqi government is on vacation. The only thing that refuses to cease is the lying propagandist bullshit that flows relentlessly from the leadership machine of the Loathsome Decider. But I’m sure you didn’t click on here to listen to me bitch and moan deep into the night. So, my friends, in return for all the nanoseconds you have wasted stopping by to visit here (in addition to Willie*) is a clip of The Who, doing My Generation live at the Marquee, back when the world was young and 100% of us were still alive and kicking. (And it's loud and marvellous!)
The secret word is Tomorrow (when the sun will doubtless come out.)
The secret word is Tomorrow (when the sun will doubtless come out.)
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3 comments:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7aSKzq_M37U
They don't make rock bands like that any more, and that's a fucking fact.
Never saw him live, sigh, but that was the most restrained drumming I've ever seen/heard from Moon. He almost played like a very good "regular" drummer instead of like someone who virtually reinvented rhythm in pop music and who has never been equaled.
Thanks.
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