Oh the innocence of pure lust…
a sleek Les Paul and a stack of Marshall amps,
The desire to be a rock star,
Not for the sexual opportunities,
But for the approval,
The desire to be venerated…
The desire to belong.
A black and silver specked premier drum kit,
A invitation to be accepted as a nutter,
Because the beat you sold was rocksteady,
And every band needs a beat master,
I didn’t want to wreck hotel rooms,
I wanted to feel that buzz,
When everyone connected
to the groove.
A Fender Jazz bass sunburst,
Still sounds like pure pornography,
Standing with my back to the crowd,
attuned only to the buzzing beat of the drummer,
Smiling to each other as you become one.
Thumb and forefinger producing
A perfect reason for opposable thumbs.
Or even a mini moog synth…
Antiquated now but then a revelation,
Developing loops and whirls,
That took music in new exciting directions…
being naked with just a mic stand to hide you,
The chance to hold the audience
in your hands,
Could you do it?
More pertinent, could I do it?
Patently I could not!
I had the stage craft and the look,
But I could not sing.
Even the Punk revolution,
With amateurish vocals
Did not shift the culture
Far enough to make my voice acceptable.
I still lust for the accoutrements of music,
Still wish that someone had showed me how.
I would have been happy then,
do you think?
Dale M 2021