Back when I was a kid rock and roll was deemed, by the evangelical quartermasters imposed on me, as part of a sordid world of debauchery, subliminal back masking and general chicanery; whose sole intention was to colour white sheep black. I answered the altar call and took a knee.
Playing on my Ludwigs I secretly wanted to rock out. Instead, I resorted to being the wallflower of a biblical “Partridge Family” lounge act, playing from church to church, but never being heard.
The campfire was burning, and the teenagers were gathered round. Some minister intoned that satan is in this music and I kneeled; then threw my modest collection of rock and roll records on the fire, watching them burn, and waiting for the spirits that never came.
As I watched Dead Men Don’t Wear plaid afterwards, I realized that part of my spirit was broken that night, locked away and ebbing, leaking, like freon from a broken fridge, into the atmosphere. The music in me went into a deep hibernation of suspended animation.
As the ice was scraped off my statis pod I saw my face. Pushing my way out, somewhere between a ‘he is arisen’ resurrection and Star Trek re-animation, awake, into a new world of machines and autocrats, all with something to say.
I found a world where cleanse, fold and manipulate gave way to a pretty hate machine, which gave way to an antichrist superstar and a perpetual dawn, which morphed into
roygbiv, a red flag and the sounds of silver. Somewhere in there the west end girls continued to foment the blasphemous rumours to which I had succumbed.
All I can hear though, are the many voices; some disembodied, some real; some trying to say nothing but most just trying to game the system.
This is my reply.