Times since then though I’m only guessing that he was my friend King? She was black as well!! I am certain that after we had been lighting grass fires on the plain and I was doing some electrical work she first showed me the record player. I was smoking cigarettes, think he might have been in jail.

The thing with the contaminated frozen berries in the news this week made me think about it. The hep love of swing that came after Sinatra. Fuck Miles’ celebrity, to quote Leon Russell, ‘she knows who she is’ so we had better make another record and soon. All this, no “Banana Splits”, no “The Box”,  only a few good ones remain dead or vague or repressed.  I swear, how fast he ran, and me trying, and Elvis dead.

Further, Elvis was supposed to go there, really no story, just boring, nothing quite grabbed me, this thing almost head height behind him, and, only thought of it now, the darkest skinned guy Rock-n-Roll appreciation. Chuck Berry and Little Richard were in the same fruitless bunch of jazz afficionados, including possibly Miles, though he in the suitcase thing, and spun a few…noting that I had seen it rearing up behind him too.

I don’t give a flying fuck, cars littered with torn up porn magazines and, back then, no groovy friends with records, no hamburger shop with jute (sic) box. Personal memories man; I got this robot voice stuff going on. I gig and figure out how he would make his big entrance. He always puzzled me. (How could that swamp guitar lick and sound not haunt an impressionable lad?)

The idea of the fruit anyway, lots of shit but some memories, have got them in bags. So yeah shit and the wilderness of a broken family, old black and white TV. He thought I was kidding when I shouted SNAKE! SNAKE! (first one; it was probably scalded) and he looked at me as if to say that shit can’t kill the moonlight. Sabotage is all I’ve got but for himself, he and his capitalist overlords, no more than the true pioneers, night over head, and of all those I mention, noting Bailey: I can tap me toe to anything, but can’t really frame along with Elvis, Bill Haley, over dad’s records, jazz planted. A white boy shaking his leg and singing. The fruit reference came from the shit reference i. e. the hepatitis, cobra piss, fire and king of rock ‘n roll. Could the queen of rock ‘n roll shit be recited and recorded and fed into that thing on channel 2 or channel 0?

That other nice white boy, Bing, eating from the tree. That kind of screwed me up. I can’t separate that. Dancing into the wee hours in their backyards under the blackest night with their friends like nobody knows how. I mean really swinging.

Shit in berries. I’d never thought about Chuck Berry and fruit and fuck Frank Sinatra! And fuck Miles! New, old memories, now you’ve got Little Richard as a fruit (which has no effect on my undying admiration for him). Was pranking him and when he turned his head and saw, despite being musically so disparate, just a bunch a white guys? Now I want to find a version of it. It reared up like a cobra nearly bringing me to enjoy the music of the second coming. It took me a half lifetime before I discovered that. To catch up to him (poor sucker) always taking freely from the tree, the original fruits planted. Bore far more fruit till Frank Z scientific and mad cold and free of emotional baggage.

You say the memories fade and diminish unless twas something real dramatic. Fuck apologising. Can’t kill the moonlight. The shit set me down and spun me around once or twice and hit me. I had a pretty fucked night. Nothing too serious but embarrassed myself ever again. As they say in Australia once you release an emotional tip in front of people Yeah – Nah end.

I’m not totally white (maybe even freckled) though totally with you. This one should blow over. Give it a couple. They stomp all over it with his first verse and then, PLEASE SWITCH IT OFF, those horrible loud blues rock zero-dynamic shit typical of the bulk of yeah some of it, some of it is personal memories man – no good for your health or anything, if the Stones ever do a blues album I’ll throw up. Please god strike down all heavy handed rhythm and then hit mute or back or something. (But I’m also a hypocrit)

Your blues is your blues. You don’t play other peoples. There ain’t no rewinding time like – Cannons Jug Stompers – Viola Lee Blues and Minglewood Blues, that shit. Not allowed. Leave it where it is and don’t fuck the jitters atop and then come out sheepish return and apologies and all that – dont need anything else – sit out the horrendous recycled blues cover band fucking shite… watch how he captures the vibrations of the universe! With it! Gus Cannon that’s scarey shit! White people have to stomp attached.

Fuck never knows man, you might have just been implanted again, fucking aliens, like fucking Clapton. Dickheads. Makes me angry. Can’t help it. Fuck off. If equal ownership rights. Then they bow and offer some bullshit homage a couple of times and later go and bury themselves justified. I’m an emotional from way back, full of shit to. Embarrassment. Got nowhere to go only to get away ASAP. Watch how he canes it. But the band turns into one of the originals and drive of in limos into the sunset.

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