WickedEye's Quotient

6/19/2007 at 12:40

Put Another Dime In The Jukebox, Baby

I love rock.

Always have. Other music too; but rock- guitar, drum, bass driving for an ending that sounds like orgasm and wracks your body into its shape- has a special place in my heart.

No, make that my body.

How many people actually listen to rock? Not sure about a lot of what passes for it now- but I wouldn’t know anyhow.

I don’t listen to it. I pump it through my veins.

The underpinning of a primal beat that shakes the soles of your feet, wringing the tempo of your heart faster and faster, racing endlessly, helplessly, to keep up;
a plucked and drowning rush of guitar, taut and smoky, flushed and screaming like the highest, twisting, throbbing pitch of sensation on a hot summer night;
the bass a steel- and bronze-clad gladiator furiously cutting apart every synapse with deep melodies wrung from cold metal;
the twining, writhing shock of keyboards, guitars, synthesizers, crackling with enough raw force to light a city;
the mind-destroying power of the sounds
from a 14-foot-high Marshall stack mating, meshing, slamming into you over and over;
the beat setting the pulse of your body, the bassline pushing into you until you can’t tell it from a lover, the melody tangling with them to pour over the whole of your body like liquid flame;
lyrics whispering myth, poetry, lust, magic, wooing, shrieking, cutting the universe to pieces in a bacchanal of words;
standing sweaty, burning, shaking, throbbing at the end of a song, your body abandoned to music that has ravished it from top to toe, has taken you so thoroughly that there is almost nothing left.


When was the last time you listened to rock?


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