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Straitjacket Fit

I love the rock and roll! I love the sheer coarseness of it all, the sweet rambling mayhem that a standard guitar set-up and Marshall amps stacked to the roof can generate. The audacity of it. The messed up, cat strut that every singer worth their rider will turn on when there’s more than handful of goggle-eyed, half-trashed punters in the room. So hit that power chord, my friend, raise two fingers to the heavens and send me soaring far, far into the stratosphere – free, unhinged – a rock and roll time bomb just waiting for that moment of pure sonic catharsis. Sure I’ll probably be deaf by the age of 40. But I ride the volume on my stereo low, and the sucker still has a long way to go. Eleven? Ha! Mine goes to twelve. And you ain’t heard nothing yet. Yes, it seeps into my skin like the smoke from an hour-long bonfire, shattering my mind with every numbing crack of a 16-inch snare. I talk it, sing, play it, swagger it, living at least part of my life vicariously through music’s most iconic figures. Eric Clapton, Angus Young, Keith Richards … Now there’s a face that tells a thousand stories. If only his wrinkles could talk. For those about to rock, I salute you. Just remember to wear your earplugs.