They Listenin - IGKW Round One (LONG!) (915 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: Negroes
Rating: 1.93 on 31 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2006-04-21 15:38:01 EDT
They Listenin -IGKW Round One
(Theme: Traveling Tales & Hard Times)
*
'SHE GOES ON'
(Jimmy Ray Raff)
Shuckin' Jim
She can be hard and unforgiving
She can be short, she can be long
Every once in a blue moon
She'll answer a prayer inside a song
She was there before my feet set down
And she'll be there after I'm gone
There ain't no way to stop her
She just rolls on and on
She's the road
The open road
An she's seen us come and go
She leads us on our way, always with
something new to show
She's the road
The open road
The city's story, the country's song
She's the road,
The open road,
And she goes on and on...
*
I first met Shuckin Jim on a west-bound freight.
I was fourteen years old and Arizona bound.
There wasn't no exciting pickings to be found on that boxcar, like when you sometimes hopped into a car and found fruit or crates of corned beef and such.
There was crates all right, there was always crates, problem was finding someplace safe to squeeze in among those crates, a place that would shelter me from the cold night air. I didn't find no food, and not much warmth either.
All I found was machine parts packed in grease and a nigger with a guitar. He was young, nowhere's near thirty, but as lives go he'd just about reached the end of his run.
I could smell death on him, right from the get-go.
Now some like to make out like riding the rails was just a big old adventure with traveling men sprawling on the sun-warmed boards of a flatbed while crossing open plains under blue skies and sharing cans of potted meat and flasks of bourbon, or gathering together to heat a can of beans over the flickering light of a Sterno can in a big empty boxcar as it raced across a dark and unknowable land under the stars.
The truth was different, you see. It was 1932. There was a depression on. People were hungry and desperate and on the move, and people who are hungry and desperate do terrible things, more so if they's on the move, cause then they follow their worst impulses and run.
It was my momma who showed me the door. She packed me a lunch and made sure I was wearing good clothes before she sent me on my way. I wasn't a fashion plate, but I was wearing sturdy dungarees and a heavy cotton shirt. I also had on my daddy's working man boots and his canvas coat.
She told me the truth, and being my momma she didn't varnish it none. She had babies to feed and I was old enough to seek work, so I had to go.
"Don't know how long you be travelin" she'd said on the day I left. "I done made you some sammiches of that pickled tongue cooked up the way you like, the way your daddy used to like, and you gots a dollar forty-five in your pocket and clothes that are gonna wear slow. So you make me and your brother and sister proud and get a job and make something of yourself, you hear me?"
She was crying as she said all this, but I was the man of the house so I had to stand strong there on the porch with Elton and Louisa hanging on momma's skirts and looking up at me.
I didn't want to leave. I wanted to grab hold of my momma and have a nice sit-down dinner and see daddy walk through the door all normal and smiling and not with his head all bashed in and lopsided like he was when I found him a few weeks back.
He'd been working in town, bringing in a little money hauling boxes in a warehouse. One night he was late coming home so I walked into Farragut and found him near the warehouse with his head all stove in and a scrap of paper tucked in his shirt pocket.
Someone had wrote SCAB on the paper in a none too clear hand.
The message was clear enough, though.
Times were hard.
So I said goodbye to my warm bed and the home I knew just as well as my momma's face and I hit the road, and the rails.
I promised I'd send home money when I could.
That had been almost a year before I met the man with the guitar.
I worked lots of places after leaving Farragut. I'd been in Chatanooga and Birmingham, Tuscaloosa and Memphis. I got a tooth knocked right out of my head working in a soup kitchen in Pine Bluff, and I got with a woman for the first time up north in Kansas City.
I sent money home every chance I got. Once I sent six whole dollars in a single envelope.
After heading back down south I heard talk about California. I heard that it was hard to get work there as anywhere, but at least the weather was good, and you could eat fruit right off the trees if you were real hungry.
I'd growed up a lot since leaving Tennessee, but I guess I was still just a kid in some respects cause I was taken with that idea, which turned out to be hokum.
In Jacksonville I hopped on a freight headed for Arizona. The Golden State was right next door, close enough for my liking.
And that's where I met a dying nigger with a beat-up guitar, and heard a kind of music I never heard before.
I didn't see him at first, I only heard him.
"Close that damn door, fool boy."
The boxcar door rattled as I slid it shut, and I turned and looked for the man who had just spoken, finally seeing him.
I sized him up, me small and shivering from the cold, him ten years older and looking like a granddaddy, worn down and used up. Before I even gave him my name (the polite thing to do, as momma always told me, even with the niggers cause they's working folk deserving some kindness just like us) I asked him what kind of songs he sang.
"They only one kind o' music Shuckin Jim be singin," he said, "An that's the blues, boy. The blues."
*
'DONE'
(Jimmy Ray Raff)
Shuckin' Jim
Done is done like the settin sun
Done is done it's true
Done is done like a fired gun
And I be done with you
Fun is fun like a racetrack run
Fun is fun it's true
Fun is fun, and we had it, hon
But the fun be done with you...
*
The sun had only been down an hour or so, but it was late March and still awful cold. The cool wind slipped through the gaps in the boxcar slats and seemed double cold what with the fact that the train was moving.
Once I sized up Shuckin Jim and figured the skinny, tired looking nigger wasn't no threat, I unrolled my blanket, got a can of Sterno out of my bindle and lit her up with a wooden match.
"This ain't for drinking, now," I told Jim.
In a jungle I once had a crazy Indian and two white men knock me down and take all the cans of Sterno out of my bedroll. Then they took turns holding me still while they made themselves some pink ladies, heating the jelly over a small fire and then squeezing it through a sock til they had enough alcohol to drink.
I seen men in hobo camps roll on the ground and scream for their mommas after drinking too many squeezes. I seen them blind, and I seen one cut open his belly with a knife when the hurting in his guts got too bad to bear.
"Tha's okay, l'il man," Jim had said. "Mah drinkin days is done."
"Little man? You making fun of me?"
"No suh," Jim said. His eyes got big and put his hand on his guitar instead of his heart. "Ah swear it so. Ah jus sayin you got the look of a travelin man, but you still jus a boy. You a li'l man."
Something happened just then, I don't know what, but from that point on Jim and me was friends.
Maybe it was the way he swore an oath on his guitar, or the easy smile on his tired bazoo. I got the feeling Jim wasn't waiting for me to nod off so he could rob me blind.
It was funny. One minute I was ready to bolt and the next I was giving him my name, hunkered down and at ease with the man, and in my head I wasn't thinking of him as a nigger no more but as a Negro. Made no difference to me, a word's a word, but I knew that folk like Jim called themselves Negroes and some white men used the word nigger like it was a boot on the back of a black neck holding them down.
I warmed my fingers over the Sterno some and then dipped into my blanket again, coming up with a little bundle wrapped in waxed paper.
Momma always said, 'do a kindness to a stranger and get one in turn.' Sometimes that idea backfired, but mostly it was true.
I was hungry, and I had food. I figured to share my meal with Jim.
I opened up the paper and Jim's eyes got real big again. I had about twenty little chunks of meat right there.
"Some dumb mutt cut the ends off some sausages and tossed them," I said.
"That's some good fishin," Jim replied.
These were hard times. There was no shame in fishing into the trash for good food.
"I got some beans, too," I said, showing him a dented tin can. "You got a gun boat, Jim?"
"Ah like me them Heinz's," Jim said, reaching into a ragged pack and producing a big empty coffee can.
Nothing cooked a meal on the road better than a gun boat. I tossed the beans and sausage into the can and stirred them some with the blade of my buck knife.
I listened to the sausage sizzle and pop and it got colder and darker.
"Slow train," I said.
Shuckin Jim laughed, and looked pained a little as he stood up slow. You could catch that laugh like the flu, all right, but it was a bit wheezy and weak. He dragged forward two halves of a shattered wooden palate and I gave him a hand with them.
We sat on them like kings on thrones.
"You thought you flipped a rattler an caught yo'self a cannonball. This here ain't nothin but a drag, li'l man. We haulin slow all the way to Flagstaff."
We was both quiet a moment, then Jim said, "You like music, boy?"
"I like me some fiddle," I said. "Never could play any music, though. Daddy said I got a tin ear."
Jim gave me a grin that seemed to light up that dark boxcar. "Lessee if ah cain't do some, what they call, alchemy," he said, taking up his guitar. "Lessee if ah cain't turn that tin ear into gold."
He started playing, his fingers taking quick little chops at the strings as he slapped one black hand against the scarred wooden front of the guitar. He was matching the quick chukka-chukka sound of wheels and rails and ties, but when he sang, he sang kind of slow and drawn out, singing against the music the way a man swims against a river, and damn if him and his guitar didn't sound like the most wonderful thing I ever heard.
*
'CLACKITY-CLACK'
(Jimmy Ray Raff)
Shuckin' Jim
Clack-clack
Clackity-clack
Sniff out the buck
And ride the track
Take the iron road
And don't look back
Singing clack-clack
Clackity-clack
Share the bottle with Mack
And the beans with Jack
Forget what's lost
There's no payback
Put your hopes and dreams
In the sack on your back
Singing clack-clack
Clackity-clack...
*
Shuckin Jim rested the guitar on his knee, took a few deep restorative breaths like he'd run a race, and then looked me in the eye.
"That's the blues, l'il man. That's the heart singin. Singin bout where it's been and what it's lost, and where it wants to go and what it pines for. It's losin yo'self of the sickness inside yo' soul, bringin it up and out in song so it don't fester inside, like a man hackin up a piece of fish that done gone bad."
"A piece of sole?"
Jim looked surprised, and then he wheezed laughter until tears cut dark tracks down the hollows of his cheeks and he rocked back and forth on his skinny black ass.
We ate our beans and sausage and I told Jim about myself, the little there was, and soon the Sterno had burned down to nothing but a froth of blue deep in the can.
Jim leaned over and lit up a flaking cigar.
"Rich man threw this in the gutter," he said. "Said it was too dry." Shuckin Jim gave his head a slow shake and said, "World's gone strange on us, boy."
I got up and crossed the boxcar and let my pecker hang out a crack in the rickety sliding door. There was nothing but dark countryside out there so far from the city, but my piss sparkled like fancy champagne in the light of the moon.
Shuckin Jim asked me to hold onto his cigar, and I did. He cleared his throat and sang a song about being rich and not having to scratch out a living no more.
*
'AIN'T GONNA SCRATCH NO MO'
(Jimmy Ray Raff)
Shuckin' Jim
Ain't gonna scratch no mo, no mo
Ain't gonna scratch no how
Ain't gonna scratch no mo, no mo
Ah'm a rich man now
Got's a brand new Caddy
And a Gib guitar
The wheels and the strings
Gonna take me far
If the car breaks down
And I break every string
I'll ride shank's mare while
I sing and sing, cause I
Ain't gonna scratch no mo, no mo
Ain't gonna scratch no how
Ain't gonna scratch no mo, no mo
Ah'm a rich man now...
*
I considered taking a puff off the cigar but didn't. Jim was a likable fellow and all but I couldn't shake the feeling I had when I first laid eyes on the man. I was sure he wasn't gonna be singing much longer. Maybe whatever was killing him was on the cigar where his lips held it. This had nothing to do with him being a Negro and everything to do with the way he looked so near the end.
After he finished singing he was quiet a while, bent over and looking pained. When he finally looked up at me I felt like crying he looked so god-awful.
"Can I ask y'all for a favor, l'il man?"
I shrugged in the near dark.
"When ah was your age all ah did was live with the corn."
Shuckin Jim frowned, and then smiled.
"Ah used to hate it something fierce. Now that ah done stepped out into the big world to seek mah fortune, ah miss the corn. The quiet. It was.... Comfortin', like a big cozy blanket on our l'il patch of land. Alabama, that was."
"Why did you leave?"
"Unlike yo'self, l'il man, ah chose to leave. Tol' my momma an daddy an half the town ah was gonna be a big star an cut wax an be famous. Still workin out that part of the plan, unnerstan'. As fo' the farm... Ah miss it son. Ah miss it dearly."
"Then go home," I said. "Go back home to your folks."
Jim shook his head. He cradled his guitar in his arms a moment, looking down at it and looking sadder than I've ever seen anyone look.
"Ah gots so many songs in me, son. So many. But mah time is up. Ah'm done."
He held out his guitar, wanting me to take it.
His arms shook. Skinny as sticks, they were.
I shook my head.
"I can't take that. I can't."
"You a good boy," Jim said. "An' ah ain't got time to look for anyone better. Ah'm goan die soon, l'il man."
Part of me knew he was sick, real sick, but another part of me got angry right then, wanting to hear all the songs the man had in him and knowing that I never would.
Looking more pained than ever Jim said, "Please, l'il man. And they's mo'."
He reached into that ragged bag and took out a couple of stiff paper tubes, and inside each of them was a cylinder wrapped in soft cloth. At first I swear I thought he was gonna bequeath me a few cans of beans.
He unwrapped the things and I saw cylinders of dark wax.
"Ah done cut me some songs in celluloid, better n' stronger than wax, easier to carry round than big flat records. Ah ain't ever gonna see 'em sold. Ah wants you to take my guitar and my canned music. See that mah songs get heard. Somehow. Someday. And see to it that I get put to rest under the corn back home. In 'bama"
*
'THE CORN
(Jimmy Ray Raff)
Shuckin' Jim
The corn is yellow
The corn is green
The corn is all I'd ever seen
The corn ain't kindly
And it ain't mean
The corn's just yellow
The corn's just green
The corn is green
The corn is yellow
Don't pay no mind to any fellow
Won't say goodbye
Won't say hello
The corn's just green
The corn's just yellow
*
"Ah gots the cancer in mah tackle."
I just looked at him.
"Mah balls, boy. A doctor said he could cut 'em off an maybe, jus maybe, mind you, save mah life. Ah said, 'No thank you, suh,' an hit the road."
Jim tucked the cylinders away and said, "Its done spread now. Ah'm sick as all hell, boy."
The blue light in the Sterno can was almost gone.
"Can yo' help me, boy?"
"Yeah," I said. "I can get you a doctor in Flagstaff. We—"
Jim laughed and started strumming the guitar.
"Death ain't but a cure fo life," he sang, "An they ain't no cure for the blues. Ah gots songs to be heard after ah'm gone, an' the only cure fo that is you."
He winked at me and said, "See what's goan be lost when ah'm dead and gone? That's the makings of a good l'il song that ain't never goan be written."
Shuckin Jim held out his hand. "Help me, boy."
"Okay," I said, shaking his hand. "I'll help you get to a doctor and then we'll see if we can't sell your songs and make you into a big recording star."
Jim sighed, and the last thing I saw until dawn, lit like a ghost by the last of the Sterno, was Jim's easy smile.
That night was a long one, and Jim sang through some of it, dozed through some of it, and I thought about how I'd come to make a friend out of this man so quick.
We rolled across the west and Jim sang songs. He had good days and bad days. When we reached Flagstaff I tried to get him help, but there's no hospital gonna help a broken-down nigger.
We got beds in a flophouse, and that was where my new friend Jim died, lying on a stinking mattress, looking up at roaches on the ceiling.
I had no money, but with the help of a Christian charity Jim got put to rest in a field filled with men like us, with just a numbered stick to show where he was laying.
I got Jim's address and the names of his momma and daddy from some papers in his bag. That's how I learned he was born Jimmy Ray Raff. I sent his family a Western Union telegram telling them what happened to their boy.
And that's where I said goodbye to Shuckin Jim, but I swore I'd come back for him.
It took almost twenty years.
I made it to California. I dug sewer trenches for the city in Bakersfield and picked fruit outside Los Angeles and way up in the Napa Valley I gathered grapes that even now could be the wine sitting in a rack somewhere's, waiting to be drunk. I fixed cars and built furniture and went off to war and got shot by a Jap soldier in a jungle far worse than any hobo jungle I saw as a kid.
When I came back to the USA I was missing part of a leg, and I used the GI bill to get some training as a plumber. I guess I could have used it to get more educated and better at writing and such, but I figured it was best to be practical. It may not sound like the big time, but after the war there was a building boom and I was working so much I formed my own little contracting crew and we was all busy for the next ten years. During that good growing time I met a woman and fell in love and had a few kids.
And through it all I had Shuckin Jim's music and his few personal papers. In 1951 I went looking and found Jim's momma and daddy, still living by the corn field I heard all about. When I told them I was the boy with Jim at the end of his days they wanted to hear all about their son.
I went back to Flagstaff and got Jim and brought him home. I laid him to rest under the corn, just like he asked me to do.
I tried to sell Jim's music again and again, and it wasn't until 1975 that some fat white man in a suit bought Jim's songs from me. I didn't pick up a whole lot useful during my schooling as a boy, but I took my time and read the contract and I made sure that the papers I signed said any records put out would have Jim's name on them and the money would go to his family.
It was another twenty years before I actually saw one of Shuckin Jim's records in a store. It was sold as a collection of lost blues classics from the depression. That irritated me some. The music wasn't lost. It wasn't ever lost. It was just waiting to be heard.
I bought Jim's record (it was actually a cd, something Jim would have liked since it was so easy to travel with) and brought it home and listened to it.
One of my sons was visiting, and when he heard the music he said, "Dad, I didn't know you had a taste for the blues."
When I told my boy I knew Shuckin Jim he laughed at me.
"Betcha knew Leadbelly and Robert Johnson too, huh pop?"
Between 1995 and now Jim's gotten more and more popular. College kids really like him. My own grandson thinks Jim's music is worth a listen.
Right now I'm listening to Jim sing words etched into a cylinder so long ago, and I remember one of the last things he said to me, in Flagstaff.
"Ah jus hope that one day they be listenin to Shuckin Jim," he said. "That would be nice. To know they listenin after ah'm gone."
I once thought that Jim wouldn't be singing much longer. I was wrong.
I'm eighty-eight years old now.
Ain't that a stretch? Eighty-eight years.
I've lived three times longer than old Shuckin Jim.
And Jim is gonna outlive me, of that I'm sure, because now they're finally listening.
*
'THEY LISTENIN'
(Jimmy Ray Raff)
Shuckin' Jim
Told my momma I'm gonna make it,
Gonna be famous all aroun
Told my daddy I'm gonna shake it
Shake off the dust of this ol town
Told the bank I'm gonna break it
The suits ain't never gonna own my soul
Told my heart it ain't gonna ache it
Ain't gonna shuck and jive no more
They listenin
Like the corn past my back stairs,
standing silent, they all ears
And they listenin
Yeah, they listenin
They ain't protestin no more
They just listening
Like all them ears of corn...
*
User Reviews
Submitted by street-pirate (user info) at 2006-05-01 22:54:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+ 2, obviously.
Submitted by MyTeeOne (user info) at 2006-05-01 15:26:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You paint one hell of a picture, Jack.
Submitted by DavyJones (user info) at 2006-05-01 14:54:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I guess I didn't review this. You're the second best writer on Uber, but that's only assuming Bickerstaff is his own person and not you... and I do suspect you.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-04-27 21:32:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Coyote (user info) at 2006-04-27 17:25:57 (#)
Ranking: 2
This was pretty damn good.
Was there a lot of Napa winemaking in the 30s?
The thing I like about your stories, Jack, is they always have structure and flow to them. I don't know if you rough things out ahead of time, or have a very clear goal in mind from the beginning, but there's always a discipline to the narrative that makes for a very satisfying read.
--
Thanks, as as to pre-plotting, so to speak, it's a 50/50 split. Had a rough idea here, and it turned out okay. WIth something likr Four Corners Hole series I have a more concrete idea of the resolution.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-04-27 21:23:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-04-27 03:20:17 (#)
Ranking: 2
shut up bubba
_______________________________
Go fuck yourself, Rad. :-D
Submitted by Coyote (user info) at 2006-04-27 17:25:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was pretty damn good.
Was there a lot of Napa winemaking in the 30s?
The thing I like about your stories, Jack, is they always have structure and flow to them. I don't know if you rough things out ahead of time, or have a very clear goal in mind from the beginning, but there's always a discipline to the narrative that makes for a very satisfying read.
Submitted by LadyJay (user info) at 2006-04-27 17:16:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
nuff said
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2006-04-27 16:56:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I hate you Jack.
this was very good. very very good.
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-04-27 03:20:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
shut up bubba
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-04-26 20:22:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
By the way, Rad, you are being a stupid asshole. Sometimes the stuff YOU post is
OK, but your last review on here was uncalled for. I happen to be a natural-born asshole.
It's the ones who do it simply because they can get away with it that are the lowest
form of life.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-04-26 20:07:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I just reread this. Twice. Jack McCallum, I hate your writing skills with every
fiber of my being. I just created a voodoo doll in your likeness (I hope), and
soon you will feel the pain.
This story should be the Flagship piece of IGKTW. Asshole. . . :-}
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-04-26 02:36:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
boo
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-04-25 21:19:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was fantastic. Heartwarming, too- something fairly unique to the comp this round.
Submitted by Bigmike (user info) at 2006-04-24 12:54:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-04-24 12:40:07 (#)
Ranking: 2
Nobody wants to read stories that long, you old tit.
Love the sarcasm Jack. Nice story.
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2006-04-24 09:30:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-04-24 08:28:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-23 02:25:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-04-22 02:19:25 (#)
Ranking: 2
I vote that Jack be disqualified for using the incorrect title (IGKTW)
-----------------------------
Heheheh. I vote that your opinion doesn't count, and mine is the only one that does.
Submitted by Sphagnum (user info) at 2006-04-22 11:02:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
A standard has been set here that makes me curl up in submission.
I'm going to stink this competition up BIG TIME when I post my entry.
For that, I apologize.
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-04-22 02:19:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I vote that Jack be disqualified for using the incorrect title (IGKTW)
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 22:01:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Link the contest page here, and link your story on the contest page.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-21 22:01:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Absolutely superb, sir.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-04-21 21:47:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Jesus, I had a shit day at work. Not surprised I forgot that fuckin T!
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2006-04-21 18:38:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
oh yeah
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-04-21 18:37:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good stuff - other than the incorrect labelling. ;)
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-04-21 18:17:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Here's good ol' Bubba, searching for IGKTW, and I don't find much. Then I see
you left the T out of it.:-D
Fuck you, Jack McCallum, in every bodily orifice! Why can't you write a real piece
of shit once in a while? I THOUGHT I had mine about half done, then I read yours and
I damn near cried. Elvis and Marilyn are gonna get you, dude.
Great stuff. . .
Submitted by badassmofo (user info) at 2006-04-21 17:41:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good stuff Jack.
I didn't feel as in touch with the ending, his sons and whatnot but it was already long (Uberwise) and you did a fine job wrapping it up.
-------
The idea behind this competition, the blues theme is going to produce some brilliance, I wish there were 20 more authors.
Submitted by Yes (user info) at 2006-04-21 17:39:25 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
good as ever.
Submitted by icarus1987 (user info) at 2006-04-21 17:07:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-04-21 17:06:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Thanks Gank. Yeah, the lyrics are just some made up stuff.
Submitted by gank (user info) at 2006-04-21 16:58:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
You fucking nailed it. Very good period piece, and you wrote the lyrics (I'm assuming, and if not, then I'm an ass).
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-04-21 15:41:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I am reminded of the bluesman character on 'In Living Color' ...AND LIKE TO HEAR IT GO....