"I wish we had a gun. We all did"
-Punk rock? Pop punk to be specific or so they say. It would be pop if the singer was in tune and had the ability to add syllables together with vowels to create discernible words, then adding these words together making simple phrases.
"We have a long pretty one for our last song."
-Pretty drunk girl next to me closes her eyes and bobs her head in musical bliss; phone dropping, phone dropping, phone dropping. She falls into me then into the next person and somehow on top of the person behind me. Twenty kids in various shades of black and gray with band decals on sweatshirts swearing bleeding heart allegiances and alliances. We are at war. Bobbing like roosters, shaking like snakes. Cure the shakes with PBR.
-So what if they play the wrong chords? So what if the singer is undeniably incomprehensible and flat? So what if he's drunk? This is punk. Sweat, blood, catchy riffs, twenty kids in a room jumping around like a mess of lambs expelling youthful energy in a mad fit, the distant but powerful scent of feces and urine, speedy drums and joyous corrals to the crowd. The girls wear tight black jeans or short shorts with black nylon stockings. The boys look like sewer dwellers. The kids are cute. The kids are fun. Someone needs an adult.
"We got time for one more song Johnny?"
"As long as it ain't eight minutes."
-There's one girl all the boys want. She's my friend. She kisses me when she's drunk. I like her when she's sober. Ronny's in Logan Square. I'll see this band again.
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Altar-Eagle/97503502438
(there are more than one altar eagle)
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
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