The wet blood and the rock and roll wander through my veins and keep my life from silence and from death
To war and to battle with the microphone, be it sweaty emotion or the thundering praise from those less willing to sing their song.
The show and the spectacle must endure. For once begun, it loses an end.
Hear my sound and behold my story. Ringing curiously from my kingdom of rock and contagiously to the vast abyssal horde of loud and numerous company.
Perhaps ordinary tales end in joy, being such perfect mediocrity. This however, is agonizing and painful, real and true.
For I sing, dear reader, in absolutes. The beautiful brutality, the red of the pill. This is my soulful anthem of pure musical rock and roll.
Slowly does my riff begin, faster does it trickle off the lip of my guitar string.
Only in the speed of the rhythm can my voice touch a soul. Only a success if a change is realized. Only one less hateful thought. The fruit of my melody.
Would it be enough? The emotion that dances along my guitar echoes through to save them.
Could my divine chorus breathe color into their lives of black and white? And my subtle verse relieve them of the death they fear.
My craft is my weapon, the studio my workshop. I shall fashion it to cut down their weekly struggle. It must be sharp and intoxicating so that Monday will be forgotten.
The performance and the in-between. A bestial crowd and its deafening roars filtered through pleasuring numbs
I am become rock, singer of songs. How could I relate to John Smith my biggest fan? I know nothing of a 9 to 5 and do not fold my laundry.
My storytelling ought to inspire, yet there is no connection.
So be it, I share that which is in us all. The chronicle of love. A daring campaign.
Hence my labors, that which I sing for you.